Harry Potter and The Wizard's Blight
by EiriTheBear
Summary: The Wizarding World sees itself in the heart of the Dark Lord's curse. At Joramund Academy, fourth year Harry Wyllt learns of his true identity from a man called Sirius Black. Will he face a destiny so dark and full of terrors? AU Slash with some OMCs and OFCs. Harry/OC. Greatness Beyond Power rewrite. Different School. Different setup.
1. Part I: July 1991

**Author Note: This is Marvin, Michael's friend. Greatness Beyond Power will be going through a rewrite again. Michael all but abandoned this story because his plot bunnies fell off a cliff, so I'm taking over. Heh. Sucks for you. Also, this story will get a title change, because Greatness Beyond Power sucks. Until I think of a cooler one, I'm going to leave it in for a while.**

**July 1991**

Harry blinked in the darkness, finding it infinitely frustrating that it made no difference whether his eyelids were open or shut. He could have been asleep, experiencing a dream, but he was hyper-aware of his short breaths and body position, proof that he was awake, and living in a very real, cruelly inescapable nightmare.

Crying would only dehydrate him further. His throat felt raw from crying out and his tongue rough as sand-his last attempt at getting his relatives' attention proved futile, and he had given up, curling himself into a ball in the corner of the dusty old cupboard under the stairs.

He heard nothing from outside, but he was perfectly aware of the time of day. He didn't know how he knew, but he could tell that it was the light of day, and that no one, as far as he could tell, was making a sound outside the cupboard. It only meant that no one was in the house, and that he had been left there, abandoned.

He ignored his grumbling stomach, so empty that the pain had turned him numb. He refused to move an inch and expend any of the energy he had left living. He felt desolation and abandonment and fear to the bone, and yet he couldn't cry, because he had to survive this, he just had to.

Anything was better than this, the neglect, the belittlement, the unfair amount of labor and the lack of gratitude and basic sustenance. Time was as slow as the passing of the seasons, and the darkness seemed to close in around him with each struggling breath.  
"Help," he whispered in a little, hopeless voice. "Help."

Time passed, and he had collapsed. He would stay there, unmoving, until the grandfather clock outside would chime at midnight, during the thirty first July. He would be unconscious as the door to his cupboard was opened. He wouldn't be awake when the person, his liberator, gasped in shock, and took him away from his Aunt and Uncle's house.


	2. Part I: The Boy Who Liked Quidditch

**The Boy Who Liked Quidditch**

It was that kid again, sitting alone in one alcove and reading a tome too big for him. Tony furrowed his eyebrows. Why read in such a dark place when the courtyard had tons of sunlight streaming through the tresses of old vines? As always, Tony would ponder for a moment, and think of a reason why a boy would seek the dark like a blanket in a cold night.

His friends were calling out for the Quaffle in his hand. Tony stared at it, then at the boy, and then back at the Quaffle and then at his broomstick for good measure. Maybe the boy liked Quidditch? He could come over and ask, invite the boy over for a game. Tony didn't know anything more fun the Quidditch, and the thought of getting a new playmate excited him. Maybe he'd get a little more sun, and look a lot less creepy. He was probably a first year like him, and Merlin knew they had enough free time.

He was already two steps forward when a voice in his head made him stop short.

_Choose your company wisely, Antonio. If you cannot judge for yourself, ask your older brother Rolando._

Tony frowned. His father's voice rang in his head like an alarm, prompting him to evaluate the situation. He was playing with Aldous, Henrik and Stellan, all picked out by Rolando. His brother told him that the Tremaines hold a significant amount of political power in the Baltics, and making friends with Aldous Tremaine would make his father happy. Henrik Rasmussen was heir to a great house in the northern countries, and Stellan Stork was a family friend, or so Rolando told him. They were friendly enough, if not a little bit too uptight for Tony's tastes, but they all liked Quidditch, and Tony's overactive obsession for the game won him over.

He would later ask his brother about the small, dark-haired boy. His brother would tell him awful things about the boy, who was brought into the school by the headmaster out of pity. His brother would tell him that his free admission at Joramund Academy robbed other potential students of their birthright to study there. His brother would have no shame telling him that the boy was a half-blood mongrel, who had no noteworthy talent or skill, magical or not. His brother would tell him not to spend another thought on the boy, would tell him to ignore the boy and his very existence, and Tony would nod hesitantly. Tony would banish the thought of then talking to the boy, for fear of facing the wrath of his brother and father.

For the next few years, Tony would study in Joramund Academy without ever knowing the boy and inviting him for Quidditch.


	3. Part I: The Boy Who Was Perfection

**The Boy Who Strived for Perfection**

Calvin prided himself for being incredibly focused in times of stress. He had enjoyed a summer in Tuscany because of his stellar school marks the previous year, and he wasn't about to miss another summer of pure, unadulterated sightseeing. The thrill that ancient magical landmarks gave him was too otherworldly to describe, but Calvin lived for it, and the only way he could convince his parents to go around Europe seeing these wizarding heritage sites was that if he had perfect grades.

The only class he was having problems with this year was Charms, in which their final project consisted of building a working Vanishing Cabinet. They had been grouped into teams of five, and Calvin had had the luck of the draw with his partners, all except with one of them, a reclusive, dark-haired boy named Harry Wyllt who didn't care about attending any of the meetings he arranged. He would always be consumed with rage whenever Sally Delacroix and the rest of their group would arrive in the library to research on spells, and he would be too focused on casting dark curses in his head at Wyllt to get any work done.

He was a hard mark to track, Wyllt, and each time Calvin had a lead as to where the bloody boy was in the dark castle, he would lose sight, effectively cutting hours more off his valuable study time.

Calvin had half a mind to go over to their professor to demand a grouping change, but they were so far into the project part of their term that he was about ninety percent sure his professor would deny his request. Instead, he fumed, cursing the free-loader for free-loading, and researching twice as hard with his other classmates on how Vanishing Cabinets actually worked.

It was the last day of school before finals week, and Calvin was at wit's end trying to make the Cabinet function without fail. They had tried teleportation charms, transmutation spells, glyphs, recreation spells, delivery spells, and all other spells they could think of, but the spells were either too dangerous to subject living individuals to them, or the Cabinet would be too saturated in magic to function, or the spells would have nasty side-effects to the individual when they came out the other end of the Cabinet. It was too exhausting, and they haven't come up with a single solution.

Their time slot had come for the examination, and Calvin was about to piss his pants in shame and despair. He was not going to be able to explore the Swiss mountains this summer, nor the ancient lakes of the Baltics where Mercreatures were said to be amassing by the thousands. Calvin would miss all of it, and it would be that stupid boy's fault!

Calvin would later enter the Charms classroom thirty minutes late with his group, carrying a defunct Cabinet only capable of transporting grape-sized objects and making them change colors. He would be shocked into silence as he is informed by his professor that there was no need for a second cabinet—that the Wyllt boy had brought in their cabinet at two p.m. on the dot, a rather simple wardrobe with tasteful finishing. He would tell Calvin's group that he was impressed with the group's efforts, using a glyph that activated an invulnerability charm, a shrinking hex, a portal charm, and a resizing countercurse, and wrapping a time suspension glyph around all of _that_, so that everything happened near-simultaneously.

Calvin's glee at being able to go to Switzerland would have an undercurrent confusion mixing with curiosity, yet he would later forget to ask about the boy to his professor, when exams finally arrived. He would have a great time exploring the Alps with his cousins, forgetting about the dark-haired wonder further, and his old Charms professor's retirement would stop the thought from crossing his mind until years in the future.


	4. Part I: The Pureblooded Heiress

**The Pureblooded Heiress**

Marie watched idly as the ceiling shifted for the seventeenth time since they arrived, wondering to herself what in Merlin's name she was doing there. It was her parent's decision to go to the soiree, and not a concern of hers, but her mother had dragged her along to show off her growing daughter. Her regal, perfect, pureblooded daughter.

Though she was only thirteen, the people at the grand ball regarded her as if she were much older. Political figures would sidle towards her and share niceties. Celebrities of the wizarding world would turn and grace her with their dazzling smiles, and she would return them in earnest, ever the cultured, courteous heir of the Maillards. She would small talk with her peers, who were way in over their heads trying to act pompous and important. Marie played along, hiding her dissatisfaction. Everything these purebloods did was a farce, as far as she was concerned, but Marie knew she had to blend, and act as if she gave two shits about the ball. Marie swore that she was going to turn herself into a Squib if she was dragged halfway across the party to attend another party.

Her brother would be the same, and he could have been there, enduring this with her, if it wasn't for that bloody Quidditch training camp. But Marie knew that their parents depended on her to grace the social scene, and for her brother to take over the business. Marie would be a socialite with unlimited contacts, contacts with which she could aid her brother in prolonging their house's position as a political powerhouse.

Her social stroll around the room led her, inevitably, to Sienna Santagar, who was in a circle with none other than the birthday celebrant's mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Sienna smoothly sidled towards her, and gave her a sly wink.

"What's happening here?" Marie whispered to her, careful not to interrupt Mrs. Malfoy.

Sienna shrugged. Like her, Sienna had no penchant for parties, but was forced to go through them by her family. "Mrs. Malfoy's going on about his husband's rise to power. He's been nominated into the Wizengamot. Even if he doesn't win a seat, she said his momentum would gather for him enough power to secure a very influential position in the British Ministry."

"It is no concern of ours," Marie told her frankly. She tried to listen to Mrs. Malfoy's account, but found that she couldn't weather her boastful voice.

"You may be right, but it's prudent to keep updated. You ought to read the British news once in a while," Sienna shrugged again.

"And what would be the relevance of that? The Daily Prophet publishes a ton of Hippogriff dung as news features. They are sensationalists who bury the truth and inflate lies." she said.

"You remember Hogwarts, right? That British school that little lordling Malfoy over there goes to?" Sienna asked, her gaze transferring from Marie to someone across the room. She followed it, and found herself staring at the Malfoy heir, chattering with his other snake friends.

"That substandard school. My parents made certain I never get whiff of it, for fear that I plead for them to transfer me-wouldn't happen in a million years."

"Yes, well, pitiable school aside," Sienna brushed off, "I've managed to wheedle out of that Bulstrode girl the reason for Mr. Malfoy's elevation above the ranks—and the reason for that missing girl controversy last year."

Marie glanced at her in interest. The pureblood witch who had gone missing the year before, never to be found again—she had heard of the news. The whole wizarding world did.

"Go on," Marie said, looking around to make sure Sienna's words would reach her ears only.

"Mr. Malfoy aided in getting this artifact into the school, some sort of dark item that caused the girl's disappearance," she whispered to Marie, who glanced at the Malfoy patriarch as he entertained a few more politicians.

"Aided? Aided who? And I don't see a reason why this would be beneficial to his cause. I mean to say, he _murdered_ a girl. Let's not kid ourselves and say that it was a disappearance. A pureblooded girl, at that. It goes against the purist's way of thinking, even if it was a Weasley that had disappeared," she argued.

"Yes, I see you've caught on," Sienna smiled at her. "It wouldn't be very pureblood of him to have someone from another pure house get killed. But then again, if he didn't have a choice, he would certainly jump on the first opportunity to rid the Weasleys of a child. We all know the animosity between the two houses."

"What do you mean by that? He didn't have a choice? Stop being vague and just get to the point already," Marie said, annoyance coloring her voice.

"I will! Just … you need to figure this out because everything's there already," Sienna said, smirking at her this time. Marie raised an eyebrow.

"Continue, then," she said seriously.

"You do know Mr. Malfoy's got the Dark Mark, do you?" Sienna reminded her, glancing at the Slytherin patriarch, who was entertaining more guests.

Things started clicking into place. "So, those rumors …?"

Marie had sensed a shift in the social scene ever since third year started, even inside Joramund Academy. She had always been hyper-aware of the goings on around her. Every Dark family seemed more subdued and secretive about their business, and the social dances of etiquette had changed from niceties and 'my hippogriff is bigger than your hippogriff', to an intricate ballad of underhanded insinuations, blackmail, bribery, frigid barbs and mistrust.

Marie had asked her parents in a letter, only to be dismissed outright. She knew that her parents strictly had no inclinations towards allying themselves with any faction involved in any kind of dissent, despite being inherently Dark themselves, but to see her parents react in such a deliberately indifferent manner was indicative in itself.

"Yes, I do believe those rumors to be true, though I'm willing to wager my entire collection of Ancient Runes grimoires that the British Ministry would take years to catch on," Sienna said, in a much more serious tone than Marie expected.

"You-Know-Who, he's …" Marie trailed off.

"Alive and kicking. And Lucius Malfoy's being rewarded," Sienna finished with a flourish.

Marie wondered if her parents knew about it. She'd like to think her parents trusted her enough to tell her about the change in tide, but it could also easily mean that they trusted her enough to figure it out on her own, and to be more careful and intelligent knowing whatever it is she finds out.

"Britain's in for a whole lot of trouble," Marie concluded grimly. She figured that she could me more terrified than that, but she didn't know anything about the Dark Lord. She knew of the atrocities, and the horrors he had left on the previous generation, but she couldn't possibly _know_.

"And we all have to smile through a stupid party while he's gathering forces," Sienna remarked casually, smiling brilliantly as a few pureblooded wizards passed them.

"You're … not inclined towards his return?" Marie asked tentatively.

Sienna walked them over to the tables filled with lush food, looking for a glass of some fine Sauvignon Blanc.

"War doesn't bode well for the magical trade industry, Marie," Sienna said with cheek. "I'd rather the riches of our family be in constant flow, and not stunted by some imbecilic toad trying to take over the world."

"You are incredibly superficial," Marie sighed, still unable to catch up to the implications of such grave news. Although the Maillards were Danish, their influence in the socio-political scene ranged from Germany to Finland, both Muggle and Wizard, if the shady dealings with the Muggle governments were anything to go by. The rise of a Dark Lord would inevitably cause a political storm, making everyone reevaluate their current states in society. Witches and wizards all over the countries would begin making alliances and treaties and pacts. Marie didn't like the sound of that.

She would later return to her estate in Denmark with her family, and would ask her parents to set the record straight. Her father would calmly inform her that it would be wise if she stayed in line and not involved herself in anything too suspicious while in Joramund, and her mother would tell her that their family would not be rallying themselves next to the rising Dark Lord. Marie would find some comfort in that, and would later go to her rooms and brood about the implications of the Dark Lord's return.


	5. Part I: The Girl Who Wrote Runes

**Author's Note: Hi! It's Marvin. This wasn't beta-read. I'm trying to get Michael to read through this and see if he likes it (and maybe beta it too). If you see any inconsistencies with names, places, or any other information, please tell me via review. If you like it so far, review as well! I am open to criticism and feedback. Thank you.**

**The Girl Who Wrote Runes**

Sienna remained silent. She could hear the caretaker of the library, Mrs. Redgrave, doing her rounds along the Ancient Rituals section. She fished her wand out from her pocket, and quickly made her way to the very end of the Charms section.

She went down on her knees and tapped the very bottom of two bookshelves, setting up the very last of her tripwire charms. _This should warn me the second Mrs. Redgrave walks through here._

It had been a perfect operation, thus far. She had used a disillusionment charm on herself to make herself invisible, then wiped out any trace of her with an improvised dampening charm. Any sound she made or scent she emitted had dissipated as it left the charm's aura. The moment Mrs. Redgrave finished with her rounds, Sienna would set to work, perusing the Classified Tomes section of the library.

When the coast was clear, Sienna stepped out of her hiding place and darted towards the section. She had only one goal today, which was to find a certain book that could aid the Faction.

Nevermind that she could get expelled for being out of the dormitories after curfew, or maybe even sent to prison for taking school property—Marie had been too busy with setting up a secret common room for them to use as a meeting place. Joramund was a big castle, and one of the abandoned classrooms at the end of the northwestern wing was so derelict that it was perfect for their base of operations.

She breathed out, trying to calm herself as nerves crept in. Before her was the Classified Tomes section, and she hadn't anticipated the enormity of it. The section veered off from the usual bookshelves students used in the library, passing through a few secluded alcoves and diving into a separate room altogether. Books were everywhere, and Sienna had to breathe for a second to calm her growing anxiety. Sienna had made sure to put tripwires on all possible exits, running all the way to the halls around the library, tuning it so that she could escape the minute one of them tripped.

She fished her wand out from her pocket again, and this time, cast a recovery spell. The incantation required that she specify what she was looking for, by saying the word in Latin. She knew what book was, but her knowledge of the language was so limited that it took her a second to think of an idea.

She first used the spell to look for a book in speaking Latin. Oddly enough, the section had a few, but some of them involved instant knowledge and rituals. Thankfully there was one that served as a plain dictionary. She opened it, only to find herself feeling incredibly nauseous.

She let go of the book when she felt like she was about to vomit, and when she lost contact, her senses slowly came back to her. Sensing that it was a cursed book, she used her magic to work around the curse, opening it with manipulation charms.

When she had found the right keywords, she had incanted them with the searching spell. She picked out the words 'soul', 'spirit', 'immortality' and 'death rituals', connecting them with 'books'. Soon, the violet hue of the magic spread throughout the section, scanning the bookshelves like an ebbing wave. She watched in awe as books varying in shapes and sizes descended from the shelves and placed themselves on the floor.

She smiled in triumph. _There must be a clue here, somewhere. _She Transfigured an old broom into flock of swallows, charming them so that they would land on the books. A precaution, seeing as she didn't want to be cursed or injured.

One swallow was engulfed in blue flame the second it touched the first book's book cover. An expected kind of curse, and a nasty one. Sienna decided to put that in her bottomless pouch. The second and third books seemed to have no curses, but the fourth on aged the swallow so fast it turned into a shriveled thing, shedding all its feathers and soon turning to dust. That would be going to the pouch, too.

_Mrs. Redgrave hardly ever does a check on these shelves. There're so many,_ she reasoned. Leaving the library four books heavier wouldn't immediately alert the old witch. Happy with her success, she slipped out of the Classified Tomes section and headed off to the exit, undoing her tripwire charms on the way.

Peeking from one of the bookshelves, she checked to see if anyone was near the entrance or Mrs. Regrave's desk. Assured that no one would be around, she slipped through the darkness, carrying the two other books with her out of the library.

She stopped dead when she heard people whispering. She stopped short of rounding the next corridor and decided to peek around the corner. It was odd—hardly anyone was around the library at this hour of night, and prefects were around the castle checking for curfew violators. Even though she was under disillusionment, she was still wary as she tried to listen in.

"How did you get into this school?" a boy asked, in a tone that sent shivers down Sienna's spine. It was the sort of tone of voice that dictated the end of someone's life, the kind of voice at one end of a wand casting a Dark curse. Sienna craned her head to get a good look. In the semi-darkness, aided only by the scarce moonlight streaming through the Joramund curtains, she saw a boy standing in the middle of the hall, his wand brandished to his side. He was as still as a statue, but Sienna couldn't identify him because he was standing with his back turned towards her.

"Believe me, it was difficult," said another voice, this time low and gruff from disuse. Sienna gripped her wand tighter at the sound of that voice—it sounded shady and reprehensible.

"I've been looking for you for a year, Harry, I—I had no one to turn to. Fourteen years, and I had not one friend to greet me when I got out of that hellhole. You have got to let me explain," he continued.

Silence stretched on, with Sienna's interest leaning towards the edge of a cliff with each passing moment.

The first thing that she noted was that this man was an outsider, from what the boy had said. Unusual, and frankly awe-inspiring—Joramund was a citadel with ancient magics, a fortress that was impossible for foreigners to penetrate. How the stranger entered the grounds without alerting the professors, Sienna wanted to know.

The second one was that she now knew who the boy was. Harry Wyllt, the boy who was a shadow in the midst of a pureblood school. Hardly anyone talked to him because of the mystery surrounding him, and the fact that he was a half-blood allowed to study in the school. The boy didn't make an effort to make any acquaintances either, choosing to work, eat, and relax on his own. Sienna's interest was truly piqued now—she had never heard Harry Wyllt speak before, and his voice was laden with a certain captivating presence.

"Go on. Explain," Wyllt said curtly.

"Harry … Harry," the man pleaded. "It wasn't I who sold them to You-Know-Who. I loved them like a family. I loved you like a son. It was that rat, Peter. Peter Pettigrew, one of our old friends, who turned traitor."

"You're not making any sense, Black," Harry cut in vehemently. Sienna almost jumped at the harsh tone. "You are making it difficult for me to not call the professors right this instant."

Sienna heard the sound of swallowing through the silence.

"I … your parents, Lily, James … they were my life's blood. Lily was an angel, fierce and loyal and clever—she held me up when no one else can. She was a sister none of my relatives could compare. And James—my best friend, he was so protective of everyone, so loving and full of mischief, he looks so much like you …" Sienna saw a photo drift across the hall towards Wyllt, which he took.

The man continued. "Fourteen years I've mourned for their passing, and waited for a time when I could be free to raise you. Dumbledore, he promised me a reprieve—I waited ages, and I never got it."

"How come I haven't heard of this story before? How do I know you're telling the truth?" Wyllt said, and Sienna detected a hint of anger and choked sadness in the voice.

"I could help with that," Sienna found herself saying, belatedly realizing that she had blown her cover. The two dark figures along the hall whirred to face her direction, confusion in their faces as they saw nothing but thin air.

Wyllt's wand was out in an instant. "_Illudi Revelium," _he cast, his wand flaring to life in a ripping motion, and Sienna felt her charm slip away from her like a blanket.

"Who are you?" he demanded. Sienna held one of her hands up, the one holding the wand, in defense, subconsciously hugging the books tighter to her chest.

"I'm no harm to the both of you. I'm a student," she said evenly. "Sienna Santagar, fourth year."

"You said you could help? I want to prove to Harry that I am no harm to him," the man said. Sienna turned to look at him and noticed that he was wearing threadbare clothing, with bits of torn cloth hanging out from his frame and showing the gaunt, bone-tight skin.

"It would only take a minute, but it should work," she said, casting a glance towards Wyllt. For a second the boy stared at her with such intensity that she feared he was casting some non-verbal curse at her, but then he blinked, his eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, then nodded.

Sienna rose from the ground minutes later and examined her handiwork. She had used a usual charm to chalk-end her wand, using it to draw a large enough circle to fit the bedraggled man. The glyph was inscribed with certain runes, distanced an even forty-five degrees, for a total of eight runes.

"What glyph is this?" Wyllt sidled next to her, knocking her square out of her thoughts. She turned to him and smirked.

"I figured you wouldn't know. This is highly advanced glyph inscribing," she said smugly.

"I don't understand … what is glyph inscribing?" the man asked, and she and Wyllt both turned to him as if he was raving.

"You don't know what glyph inscribing is? Did you ever go to this school?" Sienna asked her, failing to take out the haughtiness in her voice.

The man shook his head in a confused manner. "I've only heard of this school from a lead I had on how to find Harry. I went to Hogwarts as a student."

"Figures," she said arrogantly. "They don't even teach the Art in that silly old school."

"Well, then. You said it would help me prove my innocence. So I trust your judgment," the man said, looking desperately at her and Wyllt. The dark-haired boy trained his eyes hard on Sienna, making Sienna feel goosebumps all over again.

"Tell me again how this works. I'm not very good at Runes," he said seriously. "The only rune I recognize is Ansuz. It's for … speech I think. To weave spells attuned to speech. It makes sense to have two of them, but why at opposite ends?"

Sienna raised her eyebrows. Not a tenth of the student body cared for Runes, and here Wyllt was trying to make sense of it all. Sienna wondered how such a curious, intellectual boy escaped her radar over the years.

"Placing them next to each other will over-excite the magic. It would be more powerful, yes, but the glyph needs to have a certain balance. We have two Dagaz runes—in this equation it works as clarity, or rather as dual filters that prevent lies from being said. One Thurisaz rune, reversed, offset by an Eihwaz rune—that is a compulsion offset by trustworthiness. We'd want him answering your questions, without making the compulsion too invasive to his mind. And then two Kenaz runes, one of them reversed. Inlaid into the glyph like this, one rune activates the revealing powers of the Dagaz runes, while the other, the reversed one, makes the person 'exposed' or rather more susceptible to answering hard questions," she said, finishing her explanation off with a grin. She loved showing her runic ability off to others who cared to listen, but she feared she might have prolonged their conversation too much.

"I … see," Wyllt just said. "I have no doubt you know what you're saying."

"Glad to hear it," she said, smiling. "Now, Mr., umm …"

"Black," the man said, grinning despite his gloomy, worn-out façade. "Sirius Black."

Sienna's eyes widened at the declaration, subconsciously grabbing her wand. Sirius Black had been on a run for almost a full year now, after escaping the magical prison Azkaban to rejoin his master You-Know-Who. Authorities had been on a look-out for the escaped convict, but had turned out zero leads into the investigation.

"_Incarceous!" _she cast, and ropes shot out of her wand to bind the man's arms and legs. The man dropped to the floor with a disgruntled yelp.

"You blew all of those Muggles up!" she exclaimed, her wand drawn and ready to cast a curse should Black have any tricks up his sleeves.

"I was trying to explain," Black said, in an almost exasperated fashion, "that I'm not guilty of anything! It was a mistrial, and I've waited for exoneration for years!"

"You're lying," Sienna said forcefully, apprehensively, glaring at the man who worked for the Dark Lord.

"I think," a low voice said, making Sienna jump out of her bones once again. Wyllt had sidled next to her, looking at her pointedly. "I think it's high time we tested that glyph, now."

It wasn't a terrible idea, and she had already set up the runic circle to begin with. She nodded hesitantly, and levitated Black's bound body into a standing position in the circle.

"We need to invoke the glyph with three drops of blood … the caster, the questioner, and the person to be questioned," she breathed.

Wyllt had no qualms pricking himself with a needle—Sienna was dimly impressed with Wyllt transfiguring a strand of his dark hair into one—and making a drop ooze out of the wound onto the glyph. It glowed a dim red as soon as the drop hit the circle, and Wyllt handed the needle to Sienna.

She swallowed, pricking her thumb with the needle and then squeezing out a drop of blood. This time, the circle glowed yellow, signifying its near completion. She then took one of Black's exposed hands and procured a drop of blood from that, and the circle glowed a bluish-green. The glyph started to spin lazily, the containment circles going one way and the runs going the other.

"It's done. You may ask him your questions now," she said, stepping back to admire her work. The glyph emitted an effervescent shade of aqua, illuminating the whole corridor. She hoped to Merlin no one would pass by at this hour.

Wyllt drew close and leveled Black with a look, one which the convict met with equal intensity. Sienna's heart suddenly sped up. Black was looking at Wyllt with a gaze that told her anything and everything that she needed to know. This man truly meant Harry Wyllt no harm, and was willing to lay down everything for him, even trusting a young girl like her and her mysterious spellwork to help them see the truth.

"What is your name?" Wyllt asked coolly.

"Sirius Orion Black, of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black," he answered, with an unnecessary amount of vehemence at the second bit. Sienna knew what the ancient house was—her pureblood heritage entitled her to all the genealogy tomes their library offered.

"How did you escape Azkaban?" Wyllt continued.

"I am an unregistered Animagus. I slipped past the bars as a dog and swam the Channel," Black answered.

"Did you kill the thirteen Muggles?" Wyllt asked, and Sienna's eyebrows quirked up. His line of questioning was not what she expected. Moments ago they were talking about Sirius Black knowing Harry Wyllt's parents, and Wyllt wanting to find out what he was talking about, but now it seemed that Wyllt was more interested in Sirius Black's state as a convict more than anything else.

"I did not," Black answered levelly. "But I was an indirect cause to their demise."

"How so?" Harry went on.

"I found a lead as to where Peter Pettigrew was hiding. I sought him out, and a chase happened. We ended up in a crowded Muggle street, and Peter used an explosion curse as a diversion. He then cut off a finger, and turned into a rat to hide in the sewers. He is an unregistered Animagus like I am."

"Why were you chasing him?" Harry pressed.

"Because he caused the death of your parents, Harry," Sirius Black said brokenly, and Sienna's heart nearly wrenched at the sight of the man. She glanced at Wyllt, who was growing shaken by the revelation, but was too focused with the task at hand to succumb to the emotions.

"How was he the cause of my parents' deaths?" Harry pushed. Sienna almost wanted to stop him, but was too engrossed with finding out the truth—and learning more about Harry Wyllt—to intervene.

"He was Secret-Keeper to you and your parents' location, hidden under the Fidelius charm. The three of you were hiding from Voldemort, because for some reason he had chosen you as his next target. He sold the information to Voldemort in exchange for his life."

At the mention of the Dark Lord, Sienna bristled. This Peter was connected to the You-Know-Who. Sienna looked at Wyllt, who had gone silent with shock. The revelations he was being bombarded with must be too much to handle, but Sienna saw Wyllt square his shoulders and harden his expression.

"Why were you convicted, then?" he asked.

"I … I was framed. Everyone thought I killed Peter Pettigrew—with only a finger left of him—and the thirteen Muggles in that street. Coupled with that was the fact that … that I had been Secret-Keeper to you and your parents, before I had Dumbledore transfer the spell to Peter."

Sienna saw Wyllt's expression change from subdued to disbelieving.

"You—why did you do that?" Harry demanded, his tone rising with his fury. Sienna also wanted to know, because from what Black was saying, he had also been an indirect cause to Wyllt's parents' demise.

"He betrayed all of us, he … we were the closest of friends in Hogwarts, Harry … All of us—James, Remus, Peter and I—we were called the Marauders. I never would have thought he would betray us … I …"

"I'm your godfather, Harry," he said, and by then tears had started streaming down his face. "Voldemort knew that you three were under the Fidelius. And he—he was most likely to target me, the closest friend to the Potters, and so Dumblefore and I decided to transfer the charm to Peter, an unlikely candidate because he was most distant with us—I never would have done it, if I knew—if I knew, oh, Harry—I am so, so very sorry …"

Wyllt was crying, too. Sienna couldn't help a few tears slipping past her cheeks, either.

"I don't understand …" Wyllt said. "Potters? Who are the Potters?"

Black's expression scrunched in confusion. "Why, you are, Harry … and James, and Lily after marrying him. What do you mean?"

Wyllt's face in turn changed into bewilderment. "I—I'm not a Potter, I'm … I'm Wyllt, Harry Wyllt … how can you lie when this rune's supposed to—"

He snapped his gaze towards Sienna, whose eyes widened at the sudden attention. The whole time gears were aligning themselves in her head, as a multitude of new information started coming together to form one new idea. Harry Wyllt—no, Harry _Potter_, the actual Harry Potter, he was here, standing across from her and giving her an intense look that begged for an explanation. The two people she had never expected to run into while sneaking out to find books in the Classified Tomes section of the library were standing in the same hall as she was.

"The runes are working perfectly, I—"she stuttered. "You're … you're the Boy-Who-Lived. You're Harry Potter. Oh, Merlin—"

"What's my name?" Harry demanded from Black, turning sharply towards the dark man.

"You're Harry James Potter, of House Potter—Harry, why don't you know who you are?" Sirius Black supplied for him, still mystified with his godson's unawareness.

Wyllt—or rather Potter, Sienna amended—had an expression of pure stupefaction.

"Release me from the magic, young lady, and release the binds," Black ordered, seeing the distress blooming on his godson's face. Sienna, too dumbstruck to speak, scrambled to erase one side of the glyph. The runic circle sputtered as the magic contained within escaped into the aether. She then incanted the countercurse to the ropes, deciding that this man was indeed innocent of the charges filed against him.

As soon as the ropes fell, Sirius Black rushed over to Harry Potter, taking him into his arms and embracing him tight. The convict was sobbing and murmuring words into dark-haired boy's ear, and the boy was crying silently.

Sienna was too numb with shock to interfere, that was, until one of her tripwire charms tugged at her. The left corridor. Someone was walking towards them from the left corridor adjoining this one.

"You two!" Sienna interrupted, her voice reduced down to a frantic whisper. "Someone's coming! We have to get out of here. Wyllt—err, Potter and I have curfew and, well you …" she glanced at Sirius Black, trying to figure out how to address him. "Mr. Black, you're still an escaped convict, and if anyone finds out you're here, it's the Dementor's Kiss for you. Now GO!"

It was a mad scramble for safety. The two males went one way and Sienna another—she was making a run for it towards their dormitories, unmindful that she had separated from them.

It would be a full hour later when she would return to her quarters, bone-tired yet jumpy from the excitement. She would regret not having more time to ask Potter and Black more questions, because she was obsessively curious like that, and would think of a hundred of things that could have happened to them after meeting them. She would mull over in her bed how unlikely her night went. Her little raid of the library was a complete success—and she would be showing off the books to Marie come morning.

Apart from that she had discovered that Harry Wyllt was in fact the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, who had gone missing for almost four years now, the one who defeated the Dark Lord fourteen years ago when he was just a baby. And the reason for that discovery was because Sirius Black, the convict who had escaped the inescapable Azakaban prison turned up at Joramund in the dead of night to confront Harry Potter and tell him that he was innocent, and that he was his godfather …

Sienna would decide, then, to hunt Harry Potter down and make him join the Faction, because Merlin knew if anyone fit their mission statement like a glove, it would be the Boy-Who-Lived.


	6. Part I: Harry Wyllt

**Harry Wyllt**

Two raps came from the door, followed by a flurry of incessant, impatient knocks. The girl with the long hair rolled her eyes, closing the book she was reading by her window.

"It's open," she called, not once doubting her guess as to who it was. The door fired open and Sienna darted in like an escaped pixie.

"You. Are going. To go ballistic," Sienna told her excitedly, putting books down on Marie's simple yet lush bed and then approaching her with a manic grin.

"That's the end of reading time, then," Marie sighed, putting her book on her nightstand.

Sienna continued on as if she hadn't heard her. "You should have joined me last night! I was literally a ball of volatile energy trying to fathom what just happened to me."

"Sienna, before anything—"Marie tried to say, but Sienna cut in before she could finish her words.

"The procuring of books was a success, by the way. You said I would cause a school-wide scandal trying to break into the library, but I did it, I pulled it off, got every soul book there is in the CT section, and without Mrs. Redgrave getting even a whiff of me! I doubt she'd even realize that her books were missing—that section is honest-to-Merlin enormous, I swear I would've been there all night if you hadn't researched the spell for our Faction—"

"—Sienna! Would you shut your gob for a second and try to listen? I got caught last night."

Sienna stopped with her wild gestures and pacing the room back and forth to stare at her friend.

"You're joking," she deadpanned. Marie shook her head and looked at her in a definitive, not-joking manner.

"The whole northwestern wing has charms to alert the professors if anyone's using them. Professor Thinne caught me while I was dusting the abandoned classroom by the sealion statue," she informed her blond friend.

"And? What did you tell him?" Sienna asked, looking petulant in her disappointment as she plopped down on Marie's bed.

"I told him that I was doing it so that we could have a place to practice. That we were starting a club on dueling," Marie said calmly. "It was the only thing I could think of at the moment."

"Well, that's … actually brilliant! I mean, it would have been so much worse if you told him we were trying to research Dark spells and rituals, and, oh, you know, sneaking into the night to steal school property, wouldn't it?" Sienna reasoned. Marie scrunched her nose at her.

"Exactly. It's a valid enough sort of cover-up, but … Professor Thinne won't allow it," Marie said standing up and going over to the books Sienna had brought.

"What do you mean, 'won't allow it'? That's a perfect way to disguise this … this group, we're planning to create," Sienna whined.

It's true—if they could work under the pretense of researching spells for proper dueling techniques, they would have effectively stopped any suspicion from the professors, have their meeting room, and have the time and resources to study on Dark spells and _actual_ dueling spells at the same time. They would be breezing towards their goal, and would finish their research before seventh year. By then they could be gathering intel and allies, and this would all be more than a Wrackspurt less of trouble.

"He said that we didn't have enough members. It would look silly to have a little dueling club with just the two of us. He wanted at least five of us to approach him, and then maybe he could consider it. It's still a far cry, though, seeing as dueling clubs pop in and out of existence in this school like a nest of Bowtruckles," Marie said, already reading through one of the books with fervor.

"Then we have to make that happen! How hard could it be to find sympathizers to our cause?" Sienna asked. The prospect of gathering people into their ranks was already an exciting endeavor for Sienna, and she wanted it more than anything to be a proper screening thing, loathe it was for Marie to accept.

"It's a Dark-dominant school. We're looking for wizards not Declared to Light or Dark, all the while being unbiased as to whatever leanings they have. We're looking for foolhardy, intelligent, resourceful people dedicated to our primary goal, which is to hamper the Dark Lord's ascent as best as we can, despite the unfavorable circumstances—those circumstances being us being fourth year students, stuck at this school, and the Dark Lord's ranks growing fiercer and more prevalent each day. We're looking for people who would risk their lives to fight the Dark Lord, ready to use any means necessary and any resources they have to reach our objectives. All while under the guise of a student dueling club," Marie informed her. Sienna sulked.

"Well if you put it _that_ way, then it is a little difficult …" she relented. "But we're already one person closer to the possibility!"

Marie looked up from one of the ancient soul ritual tomes and raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"I was about to tell you, I had such glorious momentum with my story, I was in the _moment_, but then you had to interrupt—"

"—just get on with it, Sienna—"

"—alright, alright. Something happened last night. Something _big_ …"

"Fine! I'll get it! You wankers," Tony yelled good-naturedly, his voice trailing behind him and his hair whipping at the sides of his face as he descended by broom. He laughed to himself on the way down—Laura Forester still could not fucking throw a good Quaffle if her life depended on it, and Aldous, her now official boyfriend—Tony failed to come up with a valid reason as to why it had to be described 'official'; they were fourteen for Merlin's sake—still could not be expected to beat her down with a Bludger if it mattered.

He did a lazy loop, spiraling down towards the edge of the pitch near the courtyard, where a bunch of shrubs divided the two areas. It was cooler down there, away from the unusual blistering heat of October, and Tony was already congratulating himself for giving himself an opportunity to cool down, when he realized that it was indeed very leafy and foliage-y down here, and the Quaffle was nowhere in sight. He cursed his luck as his feet hit the ground, jumping sideways off his broom and wiping the sweat off his brow. He panted for a while, regaining his sense of balance on the ground, and then began his search.

"Where are you, Quaffle?" he hummed, looking here and there for the telltale maroon sphere, using his broom to push clumps of bushes out of the way. Judging by the way Stellan had thrown the thing, Tony guessed that it would be there, by the center, or further out back near the large trees. Anywhere in between, really, because Tony had terrible guess-timating powers anyway.

The breeze picked up, cooling the sweat that glued his sports shirt to his skin and making him shiver a bit. He walked along a path that took him to a rather shady tree, covering almost all of the ground beneath its leaves with its shadow. The tree was a wand tree, though he couldn't quite identify it. He peered around the trunk, trying to discern anything round, and saw a dark-haired boy leaning against the tree. He quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. On the boy's lap was a rather large tome, opened face-down to cover his legs. The boy was wearing casual clothes, a sight not too common to see around the campus, and he had mussed-up hair, brought by the wind or just naturally occurring, Tony didn't know for certain. What he did know was that the boy was sound asleep, apparently having dozed off while reading. Tony drew close, and to his surprise, found the Quaffle wedged between the boy's sleeping form and a big tree root.

The thing that struck Tony the most was how familiar the play of events seemed, except, something was off, and it had something to do with the Quaffle.

Tony drew closer, until he was standing not two feet from the dark-haired youth. He could hear the light snores the boy was emitting, and see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Tony pursed his lips, unsure of what to do. The Quaffle was pretty much lodged securely between the boy and the tree root, and taking the Quaffle, whether gently or by force, would inevitably wake the boy up, something that Tony didn't want to do. The shade under the tree amidst the wake of the autumn breeze was a perfect setting for a nap. Tony looked at the boy—who was wearing glasses, apparently—and the image of rippling grass and shifting shadows, the castle and the blue sky as a backdrop, stuck with him.

He decided to try to get the Quaffle back anyway, kneeling next to the boy. He put his hands around the grooves of the Quaffle and tugged, the boy's arm being jarred. Tony bit his lip, but it was too late—the boy stirred awake, blinking into consciousness and slowly sitting up.

"Oh, sorry about that," Tony told the boy, frowning from where he was kneeling next to lad. The boy looked at his tome blearily, rubbing one eye and looking as if he couldn't believe he fell asleep while reading. He then transferred his gaze to Tony, who remained by his side.

"I fell asleep," the boy said in wonder. He stared back at his tome.

"Yeah, you did," Tony answered, amused despite the rather awkward situation. Tony figured that it was a lazy day for the boy.

"I shouldn't stay up so late reading," the boy considered, opening his tome up again.

"You shouldn't. Sleep is important," Tony agreed, not really sure why he was answering him. The boy glanced at him, and tilted his head curiously.

"I'm sorry, did I fall asleep while we were talking? I couldn't remember," the boy asked him. Tony shook his head.

"No, uh. I was getting this—"he held up the Quaffle,"—thing—it was stuck between you and the root, and, well, I woke you up. Sorry about that."

"Oh. I must have rolled onto it while sleeping," the boy blinked. "I know you. You play Quidditch near the courtyard a lot."

Tony's lips quirked, and then an image of a small boy, carrying a tome everyday to the courtyard to read, flashed in his mind, and he also managed to recall who this boy was.

"You're that … that kid," he said, grasping for the words. "The one who reads a lot, and enjoys dark, shady places. Why don't I know you personally?"

The boy laughed quietly. "You know me enough to know what I'm usually up to. I'm Harry."

"Harry," Tony repeated, testing the name on his tongue. Harry.

"I'm Tony. Antonio, but Tony's shorter," Tony said a bit hastily.

Harry looked at him inquisitively. Harry. That boy …

"Oh, you're _that_ boy," Tony said, before he could stop himself. "Crap. No—I didn't mean that to sound like, you're, like, notorious or anything. It's just, people know you in passing."

Harry shook his head, his lips quirked and his eyes alight with interest. "That may be the reason why you don't know me so well. I am _that_ boy, I guess—if that vague description is definite enough. The halfblood. The weird-ass loner, if that's what you mean by _that_ boy."

Tony shook his head. "Like I said, I didn't mean that to sound negative, I ... you're not so … so …" once again, Tony struggled to find the words. The right words that didn't make him sound like a complete tosser. "… shady. You're alright."

Harry snickered. "Thanks." Tony couldn't believe it, but he was actually brushing off the words of his father and brother right then. Rolando would make a fuss if he found out, but Rolando's gone from Joramund—he's already ascended to the specialization branch of Joramund, so if anything, Tony was actually free to make friends his family wouldn't normally approve of. It offered a rather unique opportunity for him to be rebellious, something that he had been trying to do a lot lately.

"So … do you play Quidditch?" Tony asked him, before Harry could pick up his tome and bury his nose in it again.

"I'm okay with a broom, and I know how the game works, but …" Harry trailed off, looking somewhat distant. Tony took this time to see what Harry was reading. _The Animal In You: Finding the Right Animagus Form. _Interesting. Tony filed that tidbit for future reference.

"But?" he prompted, deciding to sit on the big tree root and cool off some more. He decided that Harry looked too brooding and mysterious for his own good, so much so that people probably thought that he was a Dark, maniacal wizard plotting something vile. Tony's overactive mind kept making thinking up explanations for everything, and it was a surprising realization to note that Harry was now included in the inner machinations of his mind.

"I've never owned a broom, or used one long enough to tell if I'm any good," Harry confessed, ducking his head as if it were something to be ashamed of. Not that Tony was being judgmental or assuming—because he wasn't, and if anyone would please trust him whenever he thinks of these things—but he thought, with a significant amount of certainty, that Harry might not be as privileged as the rest of the Joramund students, so much so that he hasn't had the same opportunities as they have. Like buying a broom perhaps. Or riding one.

Tony briefly wondered if he had gone insane, psychoanalyzing the boy he had literally just met.

"You can borrow my spare, if you want. It's a Nimbus." The offer was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He bit his lip nervously-he'd be lying to himself now if he wasn't aware he nervous about this—he had never before extended a friendship towards someone that his brother hadn't set up for him, and Harry was very unpredictable. Tony knew nothing about the boy, and he was sure that he wouldn't be able to find anything out about him from the other purebloods, even if he tried. Harry was too reclusive, and everyone else was too mistrustful of the boy.

Harry's eyes widened at his suggestion, and then they lowered to the broom that Tony had placed against the tree.

"Can I really?" Harry asked, slow creeping excitement starting to lace through his words. Tony beamed at him, delighted with Harry's response.

They made their descent through the trees, landing near the fountain of the castle courtyard, with twin grins plastered onto their flushed faces.

"That was _wicked,_" Harry couldn't help but say, gazing at Tony's spare broom in his hand. "Thanks for that."

Tony laughed as they started to walk their way to the castle. "You are a bloody liar, Harry! There's no way that you've never ridden a broom before. You caught that Snitch so fast everyone took ages to catch on!"

Harry flushed at the compliment, looking towards the trees. It was late in the afternoon, and the setting sun filtered through the branches in rays of light.

"It just felt really right to be riding a broom, I guess," Harry said modestly. "It almost felt like I had wings."

Tony regarded Harry with more curiosity than ever. Who was this kid? How come he had never tried out for the Quidditch teams, or shown any inclination towards broom riding?

"Well, apart from that, I was really blown away," Tony said earnestly. "I didn't expect it at all. I mean, I don't know many people who forego sleep for a late night read, yet have that much natural talent on a broom. It's … odd," he said, before shaking his head and amending his words. "I mean, I don't mean like, odd, odd. Like, you know, great, odd."

Tony fumbled for more words, and was surprised when Harry just smiled at him understandingly. "I think I know what you mean."

"Great, I …" Tony trailed off, debating whether to just come out with the words. "To be honest, I'm kind of not sure how to talk to you properly," he said nervously, unable to contain himself.

"What do you mean?" Harry said, eyebrows furrowing.

"I don't … I don't know, I …" Tony said, scratching his head. "I feel like I'm saying the wrong things all the time or I'm coming off as too tactless or something, and I usually don't care for that, except now I'm tripping over my words because I've suddenly turned into a blithering idiot."

If Tony had to guess, it was because Harry was so unlike Stellan and Laura and all the other purebloods, who somehow always managed to inject their title or riches or blood into every little bit of conversation without so much as a thought. Talking to Harry was different because Tony didn't have to be on his guard, listening in for any of those pureblooded cues. Harry was just … Harry, who had, for the short duration of their time being together, said not one thing about himself, or his title or riches or blood or anything. It was refreshing, and infuriating at the same time. How was he to go about knowing more about Harry if he was as reclusive behind a book as he was on a broom or during a stroll?

"I guess what I'll say to that is … don't overthink too much," Harry told him seriously. "Something you might say may not seem inherently offensive or tactless until you take it back and punish yourself. I didn't take any offense from the things you said to me so far, except whenever you took them back, or said that 'you didn't mean it to be a certain way', you reminded me that it _could_ have meant that, and I feel suddenly confused because I was supposed to be offended but then you took it back …" Harry went on, stopping himself when he saw that Tony was giving him an amused look.

"I get it. And at least I know now that you're capable of saying more than one sentence at a time," Tony joked. "Okay. No overthinking. But tell me if I'm getting a bit annoying, alright? People tell me I'm pretty much cursed with it."

Harry quirked his lips and looked towards the approaching castle entrance instead of Tony's open face. Deep inside, he was unsure of what to make of what was happening. He was too caught in the throes of someone being interested enough to spare him more than a few words, and it was going against his self-imposition of social exile.

Before he could think more on it, however, the two boys were stopped by the entrance by two very intimidating-looking girls.

oOo

"And you're sure you weren't dreaming that bit? Your foot didn't catch on a chair leg and sent you bumping your head against something?" Marie pressed again. Sienna rolled her eyes at her. Wyllt—or rather, Potter; she was going to have to get used to referring to him in her head as that—was currently nowhere to be found. Sienna knew the boy's habits enough to check every dark place relatively devoid of humans, but the castle had a limited amount of those in the afternoons. It was a far cry, but it was possible that Potter was outside the castle, hence why the two were walking down towards the main entrance.

"I'm not a lunatic, Marie. I know what I saw, and I know what I heard. Harry Wyllt _is _Harry Potter, Sirius Black is innocent, and the Boy-Who-Lived is the escaped convict's godson." Sienna quickened her pace yet again. Each harping from Marie was setting her on edge, making her more and more uncertain that she really had seen what she had seen the night before. Odd, how the dark-haired girl could make her doubt every little thing she said or did, just by bloody harping about it.

"You know that sentence got more and more raving with each word," Marie said doubtfully. Book in hand, Marie was disinclined towards searching the whole castle. She would much rather start with the reading of the soul tomes straight away—each second they waste dilly-dallying was a second in the Dark Lord's favor. That may be saying too much, but then again, mere seconds defined the whole Wizarding history just as many centuries did.

"Well, if you don't believe me at all then maybe you could ask him," Sienna huffed. Unbelievable. They were friends for four years now and Marie still disbelieved her. Granted, Marie tended to be suspicious about a lot of things, and it was her trademark personality to be inherently cynical, but then again, they have been _friends for four years now_.

"That's the plan," Marie sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you certain he's not, like, in his quarters dozing off?"

Sienna nodded, a bit cold because of Marie's unflinching uncertainty. "Quite. I always see him around on a Saturday, exploring the school or reading in some uncharted corner of the castle."

They trudged down the main staircase of the castle, finding themselves inside the Atrium. It had been four years ever since the day they first walked into the impossibly large hall, and back then they would have been awed on a daily basis at the intricate designs of the ceilings and walls of the Atrium, which seemed to shift and change and weave into each other the longer they look at them. Now though, each meticulously sculpted statue or chipped marble was part of their everyday lives, and none of the older students could afford to spend a thought on them. Joramund was too flashy and luxurious in its interior design, which reflected too perfectly the kind of wizards and witches studying there.

Sienna held her hand out to stop Marie when they reached the castle entrance, just by the edge of the light of the dusk, staring ahead and swallowing.

"There he is," Sienna muttered, throwing Marie a quick glance before planting her feet on the spot.

"_If_ he is the Boy-Who-Lived, then maybe this might work," Marie said beside her. Sienna nodded, watching as Harry, accompanied by a boy she didn't know—she wasn't aware the boy had friends in this school—climbed up the steps towards the entrance and came to a halt, noticing them pointedly blocking the way.

"It's you," Harry stated distantly, his eyes hooding over in reservation.

"Marie?" the tall brown-haired boy said in incredulity. Sienna inclined his head towards her fair friend.

"You know this boy?" Sienna muttered, although her voice was loud enough that all of them could hear.

"Antonio," Marie sighed, partly to answer Sienna's question, shifting slightly in place. "It's a pleasure to see you today. I didn't know that you spend time with …" Marie trailed off, her gaze shifting with her voice, towards the dark-haired boy who withdrew as he watched the exchange.

"Uh," Tony balked. "Harry—I'm sure she didn't mean anything by that, I mean—crap, there it is again, darn it—"

Sienna shook her head, brushing aside whatever there was between Marie and the boy—Antonio—opting instead to focus on Harry, who seemed slightly reticent at her presence.

"Can I have a word?" she requested, stepping closer to Harry, pointedly glancing at the other boy for a second before resettling his gaze back to Harry. "Privately, if I may insist."

"Err, what's going on?" Tony asked, quickly over his abashment. "Who are you?" he asked Sienna.

"She's my best friend, Tony," Marie said, stepping in before Sienna could answer, or rather snapped in a way that said he had no business knowing. "No, erase that—" Marie corrected"—what I meant to say was lover. Sienna and I are lovers."

Tony's eyes widened marginally, along with Harry's, and Sienna wanted to curse out.

"Now why in Morgana's name would you say something like that at a time like this?" Sienna asked, throwing her arms in the air in annoyance.

Marie looked scolded for a second, before schooling her face into disdain once again. "I wanted to prove a point to Antonio over there. Just making sure he understands where I stand with things. What do you say to that, Antonio?"

Tony looked at her warily, baffled beyond explanation. "I … guess I'll say I'm … happy for you two?" he said, his voice rising with his bewilderment.

"Marie, you're kind of missing the point to this little rendezvous—Harry," she turned to the dark-haired boy quickly, "Don't mind these two. I need to ask you something."

Harry, having decided that he has had quite enough social interaction for one afternoon—one week, for the matter—stepped back a few steps.

"What about?" Harry asked warily.

"It's … kind of a long story, and requires a lot of explanation," Sienna said sheepishly.

Harry stared at her like she had a clown clinging to her back.

"I mean," Sienna quickly added, slyly, "I'm sure your godfather wouldn't be so against us having a little chat. I did help you out, didn't I? You owe me. You wouldn't like it if everyone else found out about your little secret, would you?"

Sienna knew she had hooked Harry in when the boy glared at her. Merlin, could the boy glare. Sienna felt herself catching fire right then—metaphorically speaking of course—at the scathing look she was receiving.

"You're threatening us," Harry said curtly, his expression closing off and looking defensive.

Sienna sighed. "I'm only trying to persuade you. It looks as if you and your godfather have sorted out your problems last night, and alright, I'm not going to impose myself on your newly found connection with each other, but you _do _owe me for inscribing that glyph for you. Otherwise you wouldn't have resolved anything so quickly."

Harry stared at her silently for a minute, trying to assess the situation, and all the while looking like he was seriously debating bolting out of there like a weasel finding an opening in a trap. Sienna didn't particularly like her methods, but it was making Harry think, and giving them the right kind of leverage. She didn't think she'd have to use it, but Harry really did look just a moment ago as if he had had enough of present company and was trying to figure out how get out of there.

"Alright, we'll talk," Harry relented, easing the glare into an expression of guardedness.

"I'm glad you see it my way," Sienna answered, entirely smug with herself.

oOo

"I don't suppose you understand what is happening," Marie stated, choosing to keep guard outside of the abandoned classroom that Sienna had brought them to. It was along the west wing this time, which had plenty of classrooms being used for classes, and therefore had less monitoring charms. Across from her, sitting against the brick wall was Tony, looking entirely put off by Sienna's performance. Marie wanted to slap him across the back of his head for slouching so barbarically, and sitting in such a casually crass manner.

"I was having a marvelous time entertaining a new friend and you lot had to step in and steal my thunder," Tony huffed. Sure, Harry did seem like he was having fun, and he was learning more and more about himself with each passing moment that he and Harry talked, but Harry had barely shared anything about himself, and that frustrated Tony.

"Oh, a new friend, is he?" Marie said testily, flipping her long hair behind her and raising an eyebrow. "D'you even know anything about the lad?"

Tony eyed her apprehensively. "Course I do. He likes to read a lot, and, yeah, he kind of thrives in dark, secluded spaces like a creature of the underworld, but that's okay, I guess, and not entirely disturbing. AND he's bloody brilliant at Quidditch. Ha. I bet you didn't know that."

Marie raised an eyebrow at him again. Tony was starting to get irritated by that eyebrow. "Do you even know who he is?"

"Sure I do. He's Harry," Tony answered her like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"'Harry' what?" Marie asked challengingly.

"Um," Tony scrunched his forehead, trying to recall if Harry did ever mention his full name. They talked about Quidditch mostly, and had such light topics like classes and the weather while up in the air playing that he couldn't believe how shallow he had been for not being a more engaging conversationalist. "I don't—I can't seem to remember if he told me."

"Ha! See, you don't know anything about him at all!" Marie exclaimed, victorious.

Tony snorted. "Who cares about a stupid name anyway? It's not as if his whole persona is defined by who he is."

Marie almost wanted to laugh at his face, but then it would be so unlady-like of her. Instead she quirked her lips in a mysterious, insinuating manner. Tony narrowed her eyes.

"What do you know, Maillard?" he asked menacingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

oOo

"You are aware of who you are exactly, are you? Like, you know the weight of your whole identity to the wizarding world?" Sienna asked him once they have settled into a sort of comfortable chatting position. They were in a Transfigurations classroom, and the room was littered with bits and pieces of bizarre artifacts and trinkets and such. Sienna chose to sit on the professor's desk—well not sit so much as lean her bum against the front edge—while Harry propped himself up on one of the tables up front, looking guarded yet collected.

"Sirius and I talked about it," he said curtly, like he didn't want to say too much of what transpired the night before. Sienna understood—she would seem like she was shoving her nose into someone else's business.

"And?" she prompted. If he and his godfather had spoken for longer than a short period of time the night before, then he must have some clue as to what his name entailed.

"And …" Harry hesitated. "Yes, I am aware. He told me everything."

"Everything?" Sienna said, leaning back in slight surprise. If what Harry meant by everything was everything that Sirius Black knew, then that would be a problem.

"Everything that the public knows," Harry said, looking at the floor.

"And how does that make you feel?" Sienna couldn't help but ask. If she were the one to receive the news that she was some sort of icon, then she would be experiencing different stages of shock.

"This isn't some stupid counseling session, is it? Because Merlin knows I don't need someone fucking trying to sympathize with me at a time like this," Harry snapped, and Sienna was taken aback by the sudden hostility Harry displayed. What was the deal with this guy? Why was he always aggressive and retentive whenever emotions were in play?

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not trying to pull out anything from you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't ignorant anymore," Sienna said offhandedly, sensing that outright dismissal of said emotions would be the proper course at the moment, at least so that Harry was temporarily appeased. But deep inside, she wanted to delve in. Try to figure out how Harry Potter's mind worked. She would have to do that later, when circumstances allowed for trust between them.

"I don't see how that's got anything to do with our little talk," Harry grunted, glaring once again at Sienna. The blonde flicked strands her hair away from her face and met his fierce stare head on. Sienna was nothing if not stubborn, and she wanted to make it a point that she won't be easily intimidated.

"It has everything to do with our little talk," she answered. "Now listen—have you even given any thought to it ever since you and your godfather talked?"

Harry pursed his lips and stared at a skeleton of a bicorn hanging at the end of the room. When Harry made move to answer, Sienna stood.

"I thought so! You've been avoiding the topic!"Sienna announced. Harry cast his eyes down in a frustrated manner.

"… I have not. I was just … preoccupied," he muttered.

"Harry—can I call you Harry?" she asked suddenly. Harry nodded almost offhandedly. Well, that's out of the way.

"Harry, you have no clue about the ramifications of your existence. I mean, you went _missing_. You, the Boy-Who-Lived, herald of the Light and Savior of the Wizarding World," Sienna tried to tell him. Really, there wasn't a boy or girl out there who didn't grow up hearing stories of the boy who felled the evil Dark Lord. It was a fairy tale, often warped and retold to fit whatever childish fantasies the children lived for. Sienna didn't think Harry had caught up to that detail yet.

"Please don't say it like that," Harry sighed, exasperated. Sienna's eyes widened imperceptibly. Or did he? Maybe he was fully aware of his fame, or if not, he had a grasp of how much of an impact he could cause.

"What I'm trying to say is, supposedly, nobody knows about your current whereabouts. But what if someone found out? Someone from the wrong side of the burgeoning war? There _is _a war, Harry. You-Know-Who is picking up momentum like a tropical storm. If he gets whiff of you studying at Joramund, he's not going to be happy. Sirius Black found you in Joramund, and he was an escapee of Azkaban! He had limited freedom and yet he still managed to find you. Maybe you should ask him how he managed that."

"Well, then, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?" Harry asked derisively.

Sienna sighed. "Marie and I … we have our reasons, and I don't know if I could tell you mine as of now, much less Marie's reasons, but we're not too keen on the Dark Lord regaining his power. It's causing a significant imbalance in the Dark families all throughout Europe. Political tensions are high, and the social scene had turned vapid and unaccommodating. But more than that, the Dark Lord's a significant threat to the balance between Light and Dark. It's already at a precarious place as it is, and now the Dark Lord's going to tip it into the abyss. The Light side, the puritanical Light who despises the existence of Dark families like mine and Marie's, could only handle so much pressure before retaliating. Most of the Dark families aren't even aligned with the Dark Lord and they'll be caught up in all of it."

"What are you saying, then? That _I_ should do something about it?" Harry said, in a surprisingly subtle, resigned tone. Sienna cast her eyes on Harry's face and saw a far-off, thoughtful look ghosting over it.

"Marie and I have already started a group—well, it mostly consists of us two but, we're planning on building a network that could put a stop to the Dark Lord. It sounds farfetched, I know, and we will have countless near-insurmountable problems along the way, but like I said, the both of us have our reasons, and we were already planning everything down before you came into the picture. It's just that, you have no idea how much of a contribution it would be for you to join us. You are after all, the Boy-Who-Lived."

"I didn't ask for any of this," Harry muttered. It wasn't petulant or selfish, but rather an exhausted lament. Sienna knew somehow that Harry wasn't the kind of person who would run away from this, and it struck her as odd how easily she could read the boy like this.

"I understand that. We're not expecting you to fulfill whatever role the Wizarding world's imposed on you, but let's be practical here. Who better to rally the forces against the Dark Lord than the one who already vanquished him the first time?" Sienna said, hammering the final nail in the coffin.

"I was only a baby! I won't be able to do anything. He's … he's the Dark Lord," Harry was fearful, not because of the amount of power the Dark Lord has. No, Sienna thought. He was scared that he won't be able to fulfill whatever it was asked of him, because … Sienna looked at Harry, the doubt and reluctance in his behavior … because he feared that he wasn't strong enough, or just plain _enough_ to be able do something so big. Sienna's heart wrenched. This boy, Sienna decided, was exactly what they needed.

"And how do you expect a couple of teenage schoolgirls to beat him? We'll think of something. I'm sure we'll be able to. If you'd just join us, we'll be one step closer towards our goal. Please, Harry," Sienna pleaded, trying to catch Harry's gaze and use her eyes to make him see how sincere she was being.

"… Would you at least let me think about it?" Harry said, after a long pause. Sienna stepped back and nodded, one of her hands coming up to touch her elbow.

"Of course, of course. Do all the thinking you need to do. Merlin knows you have a lot of that to accomplish. And have your, er, godfather talk to you, too. I think it'll help."

Harry nodded faintly, sliding out from the table and turning away from her to walk towards the exit. Sienna stared after him, accomplishment and unease mixing inside of her.


	7. Part I: The Dark Curse Rising

**The Dark Curse Rising**

It was the night of malice. The autumn air was ripe with death and decay, the nighttime sky aglow with fires and spell light. The tiny village did not expect the rampage.

The few wizards that lived in relative peace among the Muggles of the village tried to fight back. One wizard, a lone Herbologist who was researching the magical properties of ordinary plants, lived in the village relatively undisturbed, until that fateful night when his life would end.

It was close to midnight, and he had been preparing for bed. He had stayed late enough to experiment on the blooming properties of a hybrid he had made, some rootcrop cross-bred with an asphodel, and was seeing interesting results. He had retired to his quarters, a modest room with a bed, a table, a closet and some very light touches of personal trinkets—a couple of books, a picture frame, an ornate rug.

He saw the light from his bathroom as he was brushing his teeth, an eerie green light shining in his bedroom—odd, because he only used a gas lamp to light his bedroom at nights. He quickly finished his routine and exited the bathroom, to find that the light had been coming from outside.

He didn't know the implication of the floating skull and snake right away, just that it was most certainly magic in nature. The green symbol cast a sinister glow over the village, like a bastardized form of northern lights, flickering and undulating in the nighttime sky like a living thing. His heartbeat quickened marginally, and he went for his wand right away, sitting on the nightstand next to his bed. He shouldn't have been thinking of his garden right at the moment, but he had been so close to breeding the perfect hybrid ingredient to power a vast array of potions.

He ran down the stairs, frantic, when explosions were heard from outside. He instinctively flinched back, eyes dilating and heart pumping. Steeling himself, he went for the back door, weaving around his living space to dash past the kitchen, and crept into the dark night, making as little noise as he possibly could. The village lacked electricity, and resorted to lamps and lamp lighters to light the streets. The man turned to his garden, which was still untouched, and sighed in relief, before turning back to his house and making his way to the side alleyway.

His heart fell to his stomach when he saw what was before him. There were people in the streets, lying with a sickening impression of being freshly murdered. One of them was missing an arm and had his face burned off, as if he had used that arm to shield himself from an explosive. Another was a corpse with its torso sliced open from shoulder to leg, its innards spilling into the dirt ground. The man felt bile rise in his throat. A charred corpse, a corpse cut in half, a corpse bent at grotesque angles, a corpse crush by a boulder. Blood sprayed the dirt in brown colored splatters. The air stank.

Emotions made adrenaline pump like fire in his veins. He snuck behind a bush and saw someone, a wizard clad in dark robes. He had to watch in horror as a child writhed and screamed in agony, as barbed wires slithered and tightened around her. It slit her throat, gouged her eyes, sliced her skin open everywhere and the man almost sobbed at the amount of blood seeping out of her. He was terrified beyond belief. A girl was being mutilated before his eyes. He pulled out his wand.

"_Stupefy," _he cast, his voice thick with fear and fury. The wizard didn't know what hit him as he fell, Stunned by the spell. The man could smell death and smoke and the thick presence of Dark magic in the air, and the night was filled with far away screams of terror and despair. What was happening? Why were they being attacked by Dark wizards?

He cast a Patronus and spoke a message inside, to call for help and inform the authorities of the situation. The wispy white mare brayed as it flickered in the night—he couldn't dredge up a good enough memory because of the things he had seen. So many dead, in such appallingly gruesome ways—it made his knees shake horribly, his chest heaving with sobs he couldn't even try to keep in.

The mare fled into the woods, to seek the nearest Auror in the country. He sighed a shaking breath and wiped his face with a sweaty palm.

His relief was short-lived when he jolted forward, his brain briefly registering a blast of nerve endings being torn apart, looking down to find a glittering spike jutting through his abdomen. He keeled over, sobbing once, at the intense pain and suffering and futility of everything, before dying, bleeding from his mouth and wound.

Antonin was focused, with a practiced detachment that only years of servitude under the Dark Lord could give. The task the Dark Lord set before him was not difficult. Only few magical people lived in this particular town, yet the village was large enough to fit the condition. He had lost count of the people he had killed—every death was trivial to him. He tried one of his signature spells, _Maladicere,_ which caused rapid organic decay. It hit a woman in the face and he watched in fascination as the woman clawed at her cheeks and eyes, as the spell rotted her skin and flesh.

His upper arm flared, and he clutched at it involuntarily. For a mere ignorant second he thought that he had been hit by spell, only to realize that it was his left arm pulsating in pain. The Dark Mark. His Lord was calling for him, probably all of them. He glanced once again at the woman, who had collapsed on the ground, unconscious. Still alive, yet so horribly maimed as to make her faint. The spell was nasty in that it also made the nerves it hit hypersensitive, causing for devastating pain. Antonin shook his head.

"_Avada Kedavra," _he cast, and the sickening green light, not unlike the Dark Mark hovering over all of them, hit the woman. The body jerked, rolling to one side, and then stopping still. Antonin didn't stay long to watch. Another soul in the aether. He Disapparated to the clearing near the edge of the village, his heart thumping madly in anticipation.

He arrived, twisting in the air and landing lithely on his feet, watching as few more of his companions rendered the air as they Apparated. The clearing was teeming with Dark energy, and Antonin stood stock still for a moment, relishing the magic as it washed over him. He smiled. Whatever the Dark Lord was doing, it was emitting large amounts of wild, Dark magic, singing into the night with vibrance and life.

He approached the gathering. The Dark Lord was in a throne-like seat, woven out of a tree that was once an elder. The trunk had been parted into two, and the rest of it twisted around and over itself to form the arm- and backrest. The wood was pitch black—whether charred or decayed, Antonin didn't care to know. The only thought that crossed his mind about the makeshift throne was the sheer inelegance and impracticality of it. _That cannot be a comfortable chair to sit on._

Nevertheless, the Dark Lord was sitting on it, aglow with a thick purple light, his eyes closed and his body unmoving. Levitating a few feet from the ground in front of him was a slab of what seemed to be stone, pulsating with the thick Dark magic that was soaring and breezing through them in waves.

In the middle of the gathering, a pyre was burning with purple flames which kissed the edge of a magical barrier. The fire writhed as if sentient, burning bright with glaring intensity.

He heard from some random Death Eater a while back that the Dark Lord had been planning a ritual. Antonin didn't care to know about that, either. He didn't attend some of the meetings the Dark Lord called—receiving an unsurprising amount of torture as punishment for it—but Antonin didn't mind it, or was too touched in the head to know what pain was anymore. He must have missed the memo somewhere, or he had not listened attentively enough during the other meetings for it to register. All he knew—or cared to know—was that the Dark Lord required a lot of people dead, something that was easily expected of a Dark Lord. It was rather uninventive, if the Dark Lord had planned this as a scare tactic, to shake the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds' core, but then again, the Dark Lord was doing something different right now, invoking some sort of ancient ritual, and Antonin's interest had been piqued.

He ventured closer to the circle that formed around the dark, floating slab. The Death Eaters were silent, watching in awe or fear or both. Most of them were clad in the usual dark robes, while some, like Lucius Malfoy and Alecto Carrow donned robes that looked more like Quidditch gear than standard clothes. Antonin knew of them as ceremonial robes, possibly woven with intricate magics. Robes designed for battle, the existence of which only the older purebloods knew about. Antonin would have worn his, but then again, he would have drawn attention to himself if he had gone to his family manor and taken out the battle robes.

He glanced at a shift in movement beside him. Someone else had arrived, another Death Eater, but he could tell by this person's robes his identity, despite his mask.

"Severus," Antonin murmured with a hint of a smile. "How good of you to join us tonight."

"Antonin," the man inched his neck slightly as a form of acknowledgement.

"The others told me you were late," Antonin said casually, keeping one eye on the Dark Lord as he did. "If I am counting correctly—that's the fourth time you've disobeyed direct orders from the Dark Lord."

The man shifted slightly beside him. "Says the man who has angered the Lord so many times."

Antonin snorted. "I like to keep a tally of everyone's transgressions. I'm inclined to imagine that the Dark Lord has a special place in his heart for my misdemeanors, and I wouldn't be too happy if anyone overtook my record."

"You are blithe, Dolohov," Severus only said, looking particularly ominous in his mask.

"And you are complacent, Snape," Antonin whispered his thoughts, paying full attention back to the Dark Lord.

Everyone started when the black slab imploded, turning into a portentous cloud of powder, pulsating as the magic gathered and spun around all of them. Antonin's heart picked up, and he gripped his wand in his robes pocket, dimly aware that it would be no use in this kind of setting. The Dark Lord came out of his trance, his eyes glowing a sinister red as they cast themselves upon the Death Eaters.

"Tonight, we see the advent of bereavement, and the end of everyone's saccharine and blissful sanctuary. The Dark shall take to the lands and reap, kiss the lips of the Light and tear it limb from limb."

He raised his arms up, his palms facing up. He tilted his head towards the rising dust and called, in a low, tremulous voice.

"_Cursa Demoneus, Divis Nocte," _he invoked, and the swirling Dark magic coalesced into a shadow so Dark that the only way anyone could see it was by the edges of its entirety, where light was eaten up and the starlight turned blacker than black. The barrier surrounding the pyre collapsed, and the fires spiraled into the Darkness. Antonin saw remnants of a body dissolve into the ominous mist.

Antonin couldn't fathom the intense feeling of vulnerability and desolation, bearing down its weight upon him like an enormously thick blanket. He almost choked at the lifeless air. He saw green lights flashing, taking part in the cyclone of the Dark entity forming above them, and heard distant calls of the haunted. _Souls, _Antonin could only register in his mind, _the Dark Lord is using thousands of souls. Thousands of sacrifices. The town had been an unholy ground primed for this ritual._

But what ritual, Antonin could only guess, as he lost consciousness and succumbed to the weight of the blackness.

**End of Part I**


	8. Part II: Phantom

**Phantom**

The pain latched onto him like a beast, its fangs sinking deep into his skull and biting with the pressure of a thousand bricks. He didn't wake from his sleep right away, thrashing and convulsing in his bed like a man possessed, teeth almost shattering from the intense bite of his jaw. The white-hot pain rushed like hammers pounding and mashing his brain relentlessly, and when he woke up, fully-realizing that _this_ was not a nightmare and _this_ was happening in real life, Harry screamed, a death wail that shook the very core of his being.

It was boiling in water. It was being crushed under a boulder. It was molten rock against his veins, a million blades slashing his innards. It was ungodly and nerve-singeing and just _there_ and Harry knew only so much pain, so much suffering that when he had reached his breaking point, snapped in half like a bone, he collapsed entirely.

He had almost completely destroyed his room in the process. His magic had flared violently and ripped through everything in sight. It was wonder that he had managed to step out of his quarters and walk a few paces out into the dormitory hall before losing consciousness, crimson blood pooling around his head where a scar was glowing red, chaos left in his wake.

The first group of girls who would find him in the morning would shriek in horror. One of them would collapse, the other would scream, and one of them, Marie, heart pumping wildly in her chest, would rush to his aid and check for a pulse, and order some unsuspecting fourth year walking towards them to call a professor.


	9. Part II: Confinement

**Confinement**

His dreams weren't an escape from the suffering.

He dreamed of a dark, looming hall, where things had been haphazardly thrown to the floor, shards from vases and glassware littering the carpet and broken furniture leaning against the walls. He dreamed of a woman pleading, begging for his son's life, and a mad laughter, and a jet of iridescent green light.

It was a slow, tedious process of waking up. Awareness was not lost on Harry, for he knew and remembered what he had gone through. The blinding pain, the choking despair. It was too painful to move any part of his body, so he resorted to lying there, blinking slowly at the ceiling, and trying to not feel anything. He instead let his mind work, let his thoughts settle.

The Nurse's Office, if he could recall from the designs of the arching ceiling. He had been there a few times, when a couple of purebloods decided to use him for target practice one year. It was before he had learned to truly blend into the walls of Joramund and not make himself the center of attention. He had worked hard to become unassuming, so much that it had become effortless to him, and the initial outrage about the halfblood studying in the pureblood school died down, to be replaced by a gnawing sense of isolation and loneliness.

Harry knew how to live by in solitude, only answering when he was prompted, sitting at the most inconspicuous place in the classroom—not at the very end and not in front either, and certainly not by the window—and doing all sorts of non-confrontational maneuvers that had become second nature to him. It was safe for him, it was comfortable. It offered him a chance to be something and have a future, without ever having to be hurt. It was fine, or rather fine for a while, because despite the safety and the assurance of something for the future, for the four years he had stayed in Joramund, he had not made even one friend.

He didn't even know he knew how to, or had chance to take the opportunity, until that time under the tree, when he woke up to the curious hazel eyes of Tony. It was awkward and unsettling, having to talk to someone who he had seen grow up. Tony always liked to play Quidditch by the courtyard. He often overheard conversations coming in from his group of friends, about how stupid schoolwork was or how tiresome studying in Joramund was or anything under the sun. Harry knew a lot about a lot of people, and Tony was no exception.

He didn't know that the boy noticed him, because Harry always tried not to be noticed. To know that Tony wasn't pulling away or looking at him like he was worse than scum was more than enough for Harry to be pulled in, to be mesmerized at the idea of having an actual friend. He knew that it was stepping out of his comfort zone, that it was stepping out of the self-imposed isolation, but it couldn't be so bad, and it couldn't be so terrifying.

But then his mind wandered back to his name, his history, the bane of his need to be solitary. He was Harry Potter. He could vaguely recall, now, how his Aunt Petunia would mention how her tramp of a sister married the drunkard Potter, but that was when he was barely five years old, and he had gotten so accustomed to being called 'boy' or 'freak' that he almost forgot his first name, and blocked out his last name altogether.

When headmaster Laverne Montmorency came for him one night, when he was struggling with the dark, willing for help, he had been saved. The witch took him in and asked for his name, and when he could only give a broken 'Harry' to her, she had stolen her out of the clutches of the damnable Muggles.

But he had no hatred for them. He couldn't bring himself to hate the only people he knew as family. He had been underfed and severely mistreated and abused, and had developed certain looming psychology along the way, but he never despised them.

The headmaster named him Harry Wyllt, a name owed to the legacy of Joramund, a magical institute founded by Merlin's disciples.

And he had been living in the castle ever since, being assigned his own private quarters in the east faculty wing over the summers. Harry was used to it. It had been a godsend to be admitted to the school.

But he had met Sirius, and something changed inside of him.

A need that he had repressed for a long while suddenly bloomed into existence and, unable to stop it, he had succumbed. He and his godfather had talked in length that night, so much so that Sirius even joked about going to the kitchens for a glass of water because he was talking too much. Harry felt a filial bond form between him and Sirius, a bond that felt more like a desperate latching, and it had been too much and too strong of an emotion to be ignored.

They had been in correspondence ever since. Sirius was trying to regain access to his estate, and updating him on his whereabouts, all the while sending him stories about his parents. Harry couldn't ask for more, yet it also scared the living daylights out of him, thinking of the possibility of living in a house with someone who had meant so much to his family.

He suddenly panicked, thinking of what Sirius might be thinking now. He has probably been sending letters like usual, and Harry wouldn't have been awake to receive them. He wasn't so much scared that someone might find out that he was sending letters to a convict, as much as he was anxious as to what Sirius might think. He might do something rash if he finds out what happened to Harry.

Just when he was about to ponder what actually happened to him, he noticed the door at the far end of the Nurse's Office open, with a bunch of people streaming in. Harry saw the headmaster heading the procession, wearing her trademark red witch's hat and scarlet robes, followed by Healer Thisbe, the school Mediwitch, and some students.

"Oh, he's awake!" a girl exclaimed. Sienna, one of the girls who had approached him the other day. Why she was here, Harry didn't understand. He looked at the rest of them. Antonio was there, and so was Marie, the girl with long black hair. What were they all doing here?

"What happened?" was all he asked, and he wanted to slap himself for asking such a basic question.

"Mr. Wyllt—er, Potter," Healer Thisbe started, casting a cursory glance at the headmaster, who nodded. "It seems that you have been subjected to a rather Dark spell. It would be complicated to describe, but it had something to do with your scar, right there."

Harry almost subconsciously reached for his scar, but his limbs were too weak to lift. He had always had the scar on his forehead, the one shaped like a rune and had thought nothing of it.

"Harry," Headmaster Laverne said, drawing closer and placing her hands at the edge of the hospital bed's railings. "I have been informed of your startling revelation. It has never come to my attention that you have been the boy that Wizarding Britain's been looking for. Come to think of it, seeing you now, it's the most blatantly obvious thing. Your scar says it all, frankly, and you do look like a Potter."

She gripped the railings and hardened her gaze. "But things have changed over the course of the week. I have qualms with sharing with you this kind of information, but circumstances have become too dire for me to delay this any longer. We know the reason for your collapse last week. The previous Sunday, on old Hallow's Eve, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters partook in a soul ritual, one of the darkest practices of Rites and Ceremonies called a Curse of Calamity. As we are speaking right now, the whole of Europe is under siege."

Harry couldn't say anything, too bombarded with information to really process what the headmaster was saying, but she pressed on.

The Headmaster seemed to reel back for a moment, as if bracing herself for her next words. "A wild Darkness has spread over the land. The people, Wizarding and Muggle, are no longer safe. The dead … they had begun to rise, and creatures, Dark creatures, are ravaging the countryside. The magic has caused a thick, widespread fog over the whole continent, which is causing an endless cycle of chaos. The students are in lockdown at the moment, unable to leave the school premises. Contact with others is still thankfully possible, and families have been informed of the students' safety. Most of them trust the school to keep the students safe, so classes will resume without pause. However, the European leaders had called for an emergency Conclave, and are now in talks regarding the intecontinental issue."

Harry swallowed, unsure of what to react or say. His body shook slightly, weighed down by his fatigue, coupled by the tragic news.

"Headmaster, I think you broke him," Tony said lightheartedly, though the underlying tone of the whole meeting had been undeniably grim.

oOo

When Harry woke up again, he was finally able to move. But everything still ached like he had been hit by a bus, and his vision still swam with far-off images that Harry got shivers from, and so he refrained from moving as much. He did, however, crane his neck to one side, towards the voices. Harry blinked when he saw Tony lounging against the opposite bed, Sienna sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed looking pensive, and Marie reading through some kind of sheet.

"What … what are you doing here?" Harry croaked, because his voice had been unused for quite a while.

The three of them looked up at the same time that it could have been comical to watch, but Harry was too confused as to why they were still present to actually take note of it.

"Harry," Sienna breathed a sigh of relief. "You're not getting used to that bed, are you? Because you're going to have to leave it soon and get back on your feet."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. It almost sounded as if … no, Harry wouldn't think of it. He barely knew these people. Instead he shook his head, and tried, valiantly, to sit up, pushing himself and wincing as pain lanced all throughout his body. The others watched him in his efforts, silently sympathetic. Harry didn't much care for their sympathy—to be honest, they didn't know what he went through, the excruciating pain, the slowing down of time, and the fear of it never ending. He tried to reason with himself, however, because he wouldn't wish it upon them just so they could relate to him.

"I bet you feel like shite," Antonio said, playing Exploding Snap on the bed by himself, but paying no more mind to the game. Some parts of the bedsheets had been charred, and there was a faint smell of burning in the air. Harry scrunched his nose, choosing not to comment.

Everyone looked to be touched with a certain kind of moroseness, like there was a grey sheet in front of Harry that made all of them look especially pale or worn out.

"I was looking at your curriculum here," Marie informed Harry, catching his attention. He saw Marie adjust the glasses that she apparently had and examine the piece of paper that was, as she just said, Harry's school list of courses.

"You're taking five fifth year courses," she noted in an impressed tone, peeking over her glasses to stare at him inquiringly.

Harry didn't know what to say to that, so instead he shrugged as much as he could without it hurting.

"That's impressive, is what it is," Marie said pointedly. "I know we get to specialize earlier than other schools but this is ridiculous." She turned to the other two. "He's taking the fifth year courses in Dark Arts and Light Arts, Charms and Transfigurations—it's a wonder we don't see you as much during classes. And his specializations are: Curse-Breaking, Rites and Ceremonies, and Medimagic. On top of that, you're taking the required courses of Theories of Every Kind of Magic and History and Culture. That's nine classes in total," she deadpanned. "I have seven, Harry. This is unheard of. What do you even plan to do in the future? Work as a full-time curse-breaking, ritual-specialist mediwizard?"

Harry blushed from the neck up, craning his neck towards the window to avoid their gazes. "I want to have as many options as possible in the future."

"What're you taking?" Tony asked Marie, and Harry was silently thankful for the distraction. Tony abandoned his game and jumped into the conversation by rolling closer to the edge of the bed. "I feel swamped by my own classes. The only one I enjoy is Astronomy."

Marie looked at him doubtfully, but Sienna interrupted before she could answer. "Yes, this is good. We need to know each others' fields so that we could divide the work for our group properly."

"Wh-what!? When did I become part of this club?" Tony exclaimed, looking bewildered.

"We'll you're here already, I'm making you a part of it," Sienna threatened. Tony's eyes widened in fear. She then flipped her hair back and returned to Harry.

"I'm specializing in Spell Creation and Runes and Glyphs. It's a wicked combination—I get to study glyph inscribing, and at the same time know more theories in creating spells. Oh, I'm also starting Warding next year," Sienna said proudly, brushing Tony off. "And I'm in the same Arithmancy class as Marie."

Harry and Tony both blanched. "Arithmancy sucks," Tony said with a grimace, and Harry couldn't agree more.

"It's not for the empty-minded," Marie told them, and Sienna snickered beside her. Tony looked offended, while Harry's lips quirked in amusement. "Aside from those, I'm also taking Herbology, though my specialization is Potions."

Harry's eyes widened. Marie, who had silky ink black hair and porcelain complexion, didn't look like the kind of person who got down and dirty in the garden, or exposed herself constantly to potions fumes. She was a dark, ethereal kind of beauty.

"That's even worse," Tony scrunched his nose, rolling on his back. Harry didn't feel so against Potions—he was apathetic in the least. As for Herbology, Harry didn't have the right kind of drive for magical plants and their properties, although he has earned a certain respect for Herbologists, because of the sheer dedication and focus needed to utilize the craft.

"Oh yeah? And what are you focusing on, Quaffle boy?" Sienna asked him snidely, poking the brown-haired boy's side.

Tony puffed his chest. "I happen to be the top of my Ancient Magic class. I'm specializing on that, and doing Battle Magic on the side."

"And Astronomy, apparently. The lamest class in Joramund," Sienna sneered. Tony changed expressions from smug to affronted.

"Astronomy is an art. It's not merely looking at the stars and appreciating their beauty. It's channeling the forces of the cosmos into your magic," Tony said melodramatically, almost falling off the bed as gestured wildly to the ceiling.

"It's a load of horoscopic bullcrap, if you ask me," Sienna muttered.

"What was that?" Tony snarled, leaning forward.

"Nothing," Sienna replied sweetly, with her eyes turning from saccharine to serious in a heartbeat. "But this is good. Too good, in fact. We've got almost all of the courses in Joramund covered. We will have a stable well of information about anything and everything. Well—sure, we missed some classes, but that can't be helped. I doubt we'll be able to cover the rest of the classes while making sure the group's tight-knit."

"What classes are we not taking?" Marie questioned. They all tried to scrape their brains for the rest of the courses offered in Joramund, but Harry already had them at the front of his mind.

"We haven't covered Mind Arts, Music, and … Necromancy," Harry finished off the top of his head. The three of them glanced at him sharply when he spoke.

"He speaks," Tony exclaimed. "He speaks!"

Harry rolled his eyes. Sienna nodded to him, rolling her eyes the same way. Marie just shook his head.

"I hate to say it but, those classes belong to the rarer kinds of wizards," Marie said with a hint of discontent. "It'll be hard to find someone who practices one, let alone two of those courses."

"It's not going to be much of a bother at this point," Sienna responded. "I know this sounds a little bit crazy, but I think we need to be gathering as much intelligence as we can, as soon as possible," Sienna started, glancing at each of them. The tone of the words changed the atmosphere in the room entirely, and Harry was starkly reminded of the events that transpired over the course of a few days. Harry didn't know the exact ramifications of the Dark Lord's curse over Europe—he hasn't heard any details apart from what the headmaster told him, but the way the lightheartedness of the whole conversation had been forced from the start, and the way the seriousness had descended on their faces, were clear indications that the rest of them had an idea of how it is outside of Joramund.

"We're still not an official club, so we have limited freedom, still," Marie told them, snapping Harry out of his disturbed musings. "We still have to look for at least a fifth member."

Sienna nodded again, playing with a lock of hair and clamping her lips onto it. "That would be priority number two. Everyone should take part in fulfilling that priority, and we'll discuss the details later. For now, we also need a constant stream of information from outside. It'll be our top priority. I'm going to be in correspondence with family. I'm advising the two of you—"she faced Antonio and Marie,"—to do the same. As for Harry," she looked at him knowingly, "your godfather should still lie low. But he's welcome to share whatever it is he knows about the current situation."

"I'm going to ask my parents about the Conclave," Marie offered. "We have to know what the European Confederation of Wizards is planning against this threat." Sienna smiled in approval, and then nodded.

"I think I could get some intelligence on Death Eater activity. My dad's works in the Magical Law Enforcement field," Tony said uncertainly.

"That would be a great help, Tony," Sienna said earnestly. "We need to know about the other camp—it'll be crucial in the upcoming months. As for me, I think we better assess the situation at school. Classes will resume tomorrow and I'm pretty sure that everyone would have a say about something. I'm especially concerned with the professors, especially the ones who have Declared their allegiances. I'm sure the Light families are on edge right now, and I'm going to find out what the general consensus is."

Sienna then turned to Harry and bit her lip. "Now I don't know what to do about you. You're recovering still, and you're still having Healing sessions with Healer Thisbe. I think all I can ask of you right now is recover quickly."

Harry decided that he didn't like the feeling of being helpless and infirmed, accepting Sienna's words with a slight frown. He had never cared before, but now it seemed that he was feeling something building at the pit of his stomach, some form of emotion that was pulling him away from his good opinion of Sienna. If he didn't know any better, he was feeling slightly envious of the way Sienna was authoritative. It was certainly putting a direction to this … this thing that they were doing now, since Harry couldn't quite define it yet, but if Harry was going to own up to his title of being the Boy-Who-Lived, he's going to have to command the same kind of presence.

"Now I know it sounds like it's literally us against all of the Dark Lord's forces, but everyone's been so scattered right now, and fear and chaos is spreading all over Europe, so much that somebody's going to have to try and make sense of all of this," Sienna sighed. "I'm supposed to be saying something optimistic, but we can't all be delusional to reality. So instead we're going to work this out one sure step at a time."

Harry couldn't quite fully grasp what was happening. He drifted away from the rest of the conversation, caught in the throes of a self-crisis. He had been caught in the war effort, it seemed, but Harry, who had always been a bystander, couldn't yet live in the moment and be pumped with the multitude of emotions necessary to fit the bill—he wasn't anxious yet, though he knew to some detached extent that the Dark Lord had cast a powerful, terrifying curse, and Europe was now crawling with Dark creatures—he wasn't feeling grimly determined, because he hasn't yet experienced the raw reason of what it is to be the Boy-Who-Lived—the one thing he was feeling was the looming weight of realization, slowly but inevitably pressing itself onto him as he began to be more and more conscious of the things around him. He had a feeling that everything would come crashing down the minute he left the Nurse's Office, and once again, fear crept into his loins and latched itself like a curse.


	10. Part II: The Marked One's Demand

**The Marked One's Demand**

The girl wrapped her skins tight around her, the furs rippling along with the draft breezing through the hall. Why he had chosen a meeting place near the outer parts of the castle, she couldn't begin to fathom, but there were times when she sacrificed comfort over what she truly wanted, and for years now, what she truly wanted was him. Tonight might be the night that her affections were to be returned, so she waited patiently in the dark, watching her breath ghost in front of her face.

Her hair glistened with the moonlight ethereally, her slender frame a fragile silhouette against the night's shadows. A passerby would immediately conclude, with prior knowledge, that she was no ordinary witch. There was a blood in her that could be interpreted as a blessing, but more often than not was treated as inferior. The shiny hair and pale skin, the striking features and long limbs, hers was the mix of wizard and Veela blood.

"Elissa."

Her breath hitched, the dark baritone of the voice echoing against her. She turned expectantly, squinting slightly towards one of the alcoves. Out of the shadows came a figure, dressed in inconspicuous robes, and it came towards her swiftly and cautiously, silent as the breeze. Elissa didn't budge an inch.

"You came," the figure breathed. He was a broad young man not much older than her, and her eyes were alight with affection at his presence.

"You asked me to," she muttered, casting her eyes down. She felt warm all over when his hands held onto her arms.

He looked at her with an open expression, his eyes searching and half-lidded, his lips slightly parted. It was his way of conveying how much he meant to her, but at the same time she knew that it was a façade and nothing more. Despite every kind word and deed this young man had shown her, she knew she was a toy, a tool to be used at his expense. But she couldn't pull away, for she was mesmerized with the young man, completely enamored with his charm and subtle manipulations.

"I must ask you another favor," he muttered in a pained manner. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, but one more … I need one more prediction …"

Her eyes instinctively glanced towards his hand, which was clutching at his left forearm. She knew then, and she gasped, pulling away and shaking her head. No, this couldn't be happening. Not him.

"No … oh no, you," her breathing hitched again, this time with sobs threatening to break the surface. She started to shake. "You went through with it? Why? Why! I begged you not to!"

She clutched at herself and weeped, pleading at him with her eyes. He stood stock still and refused to look at her. Time seemed to stretch, his silence louder than her sobs.

"I had no choice … the Dark Lord doesn't leave room for choices." She saw the play of emotions dance across his face before his expression hardened, and he turned his steely gaze at her.

"Why do you need me? Why do you get under my skin so?" she cried silently. Her power was a curse in her community, hence her ostracization. She found great solace in using it, however, and his requests always made her feel like her power wasn't something to be ashamed of. But her ability used for a dark purpose begged at her conscience, and she couldn't relent this time. Not then, not ever. The power to See was a great responsibility to behold, and any word that came out of her mouth during her trance cannot be taken for a joke.

She braced herself. "I will not. I can't do this for you anymore. My … my Sight is not to be used for any purpose that could harm."

She saw him tense, his jaw clenching and his eyes burning. Before she knew it, his wand was out, pointing at him.

"I'm not giving you a choice, Elissa. I give you the name, and you give me the future. If you don't, I'll smite you where you stand, and your redemption would be nothing but a dream you'll be ripped from in death."

oOo

Her voice was not her own, and her magic made the air feel heavy with the burden of time. The young man listened intently for what was to define his next move.

_The one who shall vanquish the Dark Lord,  
Born to those who thrice defied him,  
Shall take the curse upon himself,  
And lose the soul which identified him._

_Death and debt will bring him back,  
In haste she shall ensorcel him,  
Without the words to light their path,  
They listen to the daughter's hymn._


	11. Part II: The Order and the Tryst

**Author's Note: WARNING. Some very out-of-the-blue smut in this one. Just skip the paragraphs that are too graphic for your taste.**

**The Order and the Tryst**

Remus Lupin shivered feebly as he took a sip of his tea. At least it was still hot—the House Elves made sure of those trivial little things. His fatigue stemmed mainly from hustle and bustle at Longbottom Manor, which had been rather unaccommodating to the werewolf, who was easily recognizable by the ancient pureblooded paintings. The Longbottoms were a Light pureblood house, and their ancestors had no tolerance at all for Dark creatures. If Remus were to hear another diatribe regarding his 'taint' and his 'filth as a spawn of Darkness', he was going to _Incendio _the portrait it would come out of.

In the weeks that followed the Black Fog—named aptly (for once) by the writers of the daily Prophet—Wizarding Britain had been thrown into distopia. The Ministry issued Proclamation no. 6, officially stating the re-emergence of the Dark Lord Voldemort and the threat he and his legion of Death Eaters posed to Wizarding society. With Proclamation no. 7, Wizarding Britain was declared to be in a state of war and calamity, as hundreds of unsuspecting Wizards and Muggles died in the streets following the widespread curse. It was no longer safe to venture outdoors without extra protection, and the whole of Britain was now a desolate battlefield.

Under the supervision of Albus Dumbledore, the Order of the Phoenix was once again formed, with its base of operations being the Longbottom Manor. Augusta Longbottom, its matriarch, who feared for the safety of her grandchild in Hogwarts and her son and daughter-in-law at St. Mungo's, offered the large manse for use by the Order. However, Dumbledore, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, put an express trust in the ancient magics of Hogwarts' founders, and deemed the school a sanctuary for the students, thereby letting the academic year continue on for those who will want to stay. The Longbottom Manor was perfect because, aside from it being Unplottable, Augusta had used a Fidelius Charm on it, with Dumbledore himself being Secret Keeper.

Remus knew that many of the students had relatives who had perished in the wake of the Black Fog. The grief and isolation from the outside world was driving everyone mad with terror, and the ones staying in the Manor for Order business were not spared from it.

Everyone swam in nervous energy as they flit about the place doing errands. Mundungus Fletcher could be seen making himself home, a joyous sneer plastered on his face. Augusta kept a special eye on his grubby hands. Mad-Eye Moody was also around, his artificial eye zipping in its eyelid and always perusing the place, grouchy and abrasive as usual. He took a keen interest in the wards of the place, and could always be seen chatting with the Manor's matriarch in one of her parlors. There was also Kingsley Shacklebolt, who did work for both the Ministry and the Order. He frequently updated Dumbledore as a Ministry insider, and reported with much disappointment how none of the Minister's plans to take back control of Britain were working or being executed properly.

Even Charlie Weasley had arrived during the night, injured with scratches and looking like he hadn't bathed in days.

"Had a run-in with some Inferi over at the Dragon Reserve," Charlie said, wincing as Madame Pomfrey tended to his wounds. Remus had come in to say his greetings to the dragon keeper. "Some areas are so clogged with Dark magic, even Apparition's dangerous—one of our trainees got his fingers Splinched while trying to bring in supplies. It was a nasty event, that one—and the Romanian magical government had to put extra strong wards on the reserve. You never know what that fog could do to the beasts. Oh—that reminds me, I actually came here with an urgent message to Dumbledore."

Dumbledore had called a meeting a week after the dark curse. He had been so busy making sure that Hogwarts was completely warded, along with the wizard's village Hogsmeade, and also with convening with the Wizengamot regarding the upcoming Wizard's Conclave, that he only had time to formally meet with the Order members days after.

After seeing Charlie, they were all called into one of the meeting halls in the Manor. When everyone was seated, he called for silence, and everyone listened attentively. He announced to them the nature of the Demon's Night curse. It seemed to transform latent magic in nature into Dark magic, turning corpses into the living dead, conjuring dark storm clouds overhead, and spreading an eerie mist over the lands. Remus had never heard of such powerful magic—powerful enough that even Dumbledore can't counter them.

"According to Charlie, the Romanian magical law enforcement received a message in the form of a Patronus. In the message, a Herbologist frantically told them of a green skull and snake appearing over their village, followed by a massacre," Dumbledore announced gravely. "It is with this knowledge that I have confirmed the curse's nature—the Demon's Night curse is a powerful force, invoked by partaking in a complicated soul ritual. Voldemort may have used the souls of the people in the village as sacrifices, hence the extent of the curse."

Everyone was deathly silent as they heard the news. Silence for mere moments, when, off to the side, Arthur Weasley raised his hand.

He shifted in his seat and leaned closer. "How did the Dark Lord cast this curse, Albus? And can we counter it?"

Dumbledore gazed down at him through his half-moon spectacles with an emotionless expression. "One of the requirements of the ritual is a Dwarven rune slab, corrupted by burning an individual with royal blood in a pyre with the slab. We have no knowledge of how Voldemort managed this, but the previous year of idleness had been the calm before the storm—Voldemort must have acquired these over the year, while everyone was under a false sense of security. As for the countercurse—I have not the knowledge. I know of only one person other than myself who knew of the curse's nature, and I plan to reconvene with this person as soon as allowable."

Mutters all over the meeting hall ensued after that, with the members in varying states of emotion. Remus watched in shocked silence as the world came crashing down on them. Even Dumbledore didn't have the answers to the problems.

Unsuspecting people were dying gruesome deaths in the open, institutions were at a collapse, and the Order was in a complete standstill.

When Dumbledore adjourned the meeting after a few more updates from various sectors of intel, he retired to his office. Remus gave him a few hours rest before he asked one of the nagging questions in his mind, and at the moment he was in one of the Manor's parlors, trying to drown his thoughts in tea.

The chill of the Dark magic was penetrating even the Manor, making the wolf in Remus howl in need. It was a challenge not to succumb, and Remus had to constantly distract himself with menial tasks so that his wolf instincts didn't take over.

He was joined later by a patched up Charlie, who grinned at him despite the stream of grievous tidings. Remus' wolf had been antsy for a while, and the presence of a powerful, striking wizard in his prime made the wolf in him pant, and he had to stamp it down firmly to submission to keep a conversation going.

"It's a mess out there, Remus," Charlie remarked, nodding gratefully as Remus poured him some tea. Despite the wolf jumping inside of him, he managed to retain a relatively calm exterior, smiling sadly at Charlie.

"A sad time, indeed," Remus agreed. "Everyone has lost so much—it's like the second war all over again."

"Have you any news regarding the reserves here in Britain?" Charlie asked, taking his teacup and drinking from it. His eyes never left Remus' face, waiting for answer.

Remus turned his gaze towards one of the decorative shelves of the parlor. "Not much. All I've gathered is that some of the dragons are to be exported out of the continent for their safety—and everyone else's for the matter."

Charlie chuckled at him, and Remus furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Charlie set his teacup down, his eyes alight with mirth. "What I meant were the werewolf reserves, Remus. How are they faring?"

Remus could have slapped himself for his idiocy. Instead, he had the decency to blush—a thirty-three year old wizard, blushing. It was the hormones that made every emotion exaggerated. Remus swallowed, before forcing a smile.

"Not so good," Remus admitted. "I have contacts with most of them, and some of them have not yet replied. Those who have, had already fled the sanctuaries, migrating to other countries and setting up camp in the mountains. They're scared—they're still in the mindset that the Ministry would have them 'put down' if they succumbed to the curse and killed—which is, sad to say, true—the Ministry had yet to address that issue of whether it'll be lawful to kill a registered werewolf under this curse …" Remus sighed, and chanced a glance at Charlie. "And it's been the first week of heat season already—everyone's peaking at the wrong moments—I'm not sure how the wolves are handling the lust."

Charlie quirked an eyebrow at him, an idea forming in his head, before his expression changed, looking at Remus with hooded eyes. His hand reached out, touching Remus' hand, tentatively.

"If … there's anything I could do …" Charlie trailed off, looking off to one of the bookshelves, and Remus was suddenly, instantly hit with a wave of arousal from the other man. A sharp scent wafting from Charlie's neck, torso and groin, coupled with a body language that spoke of hesitancy mixed with want. Remus had to stop breathing to process what was happening. It was like a switch had been turned on in his brain and he had to fight ten times as hard to stop himself from doing anything rash.

The look they exchanged was too intense, that Remus had to physically work his muscles to restrain himself. He closed his eyes, counting to ten as he breathed out, and gripped the armchair firmly.

"Charlie," he said with a strained voice. "You are very kind—but the time is too unfortunate."

Charlie's hand slowly rubbed along Remus' arm, ghosting over the hairs of his lower arm. The contact was liquid fire in his veins. Remus was on the brink of snapping.

"Remus—there's no better time than now, when the looming uncertainty's messing with everyone's fate," Charlie said matter-of-factly, and Remus realized that Charlie wasn't doing anything spontaneously. This … sudden weight of attraction must have rooted from somewhere within Charlie, and he was acting on it now, when it seemed to be the right moment—the both of them alone, with some time to kill.

In the seconds before Remus forced his eyes open, Charlie had risen from the other armchair and made his way over to Remus. Remus blanched. Charlie's scent was intoxicating, a darkly sweet, virile scent that flooded his senses.

Charlie went down on one knee and ghosted his face against Remus' for a slight nuzzle. A few moments after that, Charlie had leaned forward, and was licking the sweat starting to bead behind Remus' ear. Remus couldn't fight it anymore. Here was an opportunity that presented itself willingly—who was Remus to deny Charlie? The dragon keeper's hand had cupped Remus' face, as his lips connected wetly with Remus' mouth for a kiss. It was long and lazy and drawn out, pausing for a millisecond before turning into an open-mouthed kiss. Remus closed his eyes. The same hand that was caressing his stubble slid languorously down his shoulder and built chest, smoothing over Remus' toned stomach and down further south, and Remus' tongue tasted Charlie as the redhead's hand settled around his privates. Remus' dick was already rock solid in his trousers, and Charlie smiled slightly into the kiss.

"Charlie," Remus gasped in between the wet kisses. "Charlie, we can't do this here. Let's move to my quarters … it's not very far …"

oOo

Charlie slammed the door shut behind them when they entered, and Remus only had a second to breathe before Charlie was swooping in and tasting him again. Remus felt truly alive—Charlie was such an attractive man, and to see him so willing and so in the moment and _reeking _of arousal was like a drug. Remus didn't remember the last time he had sex, and he didn't care either. All that mattered was that moment, and the feeling of Charlie's arse in his hands as they grinded against each other, the way their tongues danced and their skin heated one another. Charlie was a fantastic kisser with no inhibitions—Remus could tell that it's been quite a while for the dragon keeper, too.

"Damn," Remus gasped, his face and body steaming with arousal. "You're beautiful, Charlie."

"Mm," the other man replied, licking Remus' neck as he unbuttoned Remus' shirt. "I want to fuck you, Remus."

An involuntary groan escaped from Remus' throat, sending his cock into a frenzy in his trousers. It was dying to come out, dying to find some place hot to insert itself into. Remus sought out Charlie's lips again, tasting him again, licking the insides of his mouth again.

He was pushed back into the bed, Charlie climbing on top to straddle him. Remus had the extreme pleasure of watching the handsome dragon keeper remove his shirt—it was one of the most arousing things Remus had witnessed, the way the shirt clung to the redhead's body at the very last second before peeling of off him. Remus licked his lips, attacking one of Charlie's hard nipples in an instant. Charlie swore.

They repositioned themselves, and were both kneeling on the bed. He unzipped Charlie, never taking his eyes of off the flushed redhead's face.

"Have you got a big cock, Charlie?" Remus said breathily. Charlie knocked their foreheads together and licked Remus's lips and nodding. Remus' hand dove into Charlie's trousers and gripped firmly, and Charlie groaned.

"Fucking Merlin," Charlie breathed, and Remus kissed him again.

"Have you ever had a werewolf?" Remus asked huskily against Charlie's mouth. "We fuck for ages, Charlie. You're in for a restless night."

Remus took his own cock out in one fluid motion. He glanced down and stared at the two cocks, impossibly hard and tipped with precum. They kissed again. Charlie's cock was a thick mast, with a beautiful clump of dark red hair at the base. But Remus could see the way Charlie stared at his cock hungrily, and Remus licked his lips.

"Fucking Gods, you're hot," Charlie told him. Remus, some human part him, chuckled low. The rest of him just wanted to rut and enter and _claim._

Remus rolled on his back, and exposed himself, raising his arms over his head and gripping the headboard of his bed. Wearing the unbuttoned shirt and unzipped trousers, with his body hair trailing down his toned torso, Remus looked quite the picture.

"Put your damn mouth on it," Remus ordered, the wolf taking over and dominating the situation. Charlie couldn't deny him. He launched himself on top of Remus, sucking the at the man's nipples, kissing down his chest, his flat stomach, going over his hairs, and then going down further. Remus relished the lips, breathing harshly. When Charlie reached his massive member, he stopped, looked at Remus's eager face seductively and dove in.

The friction was breathtaking. Remus grunted when Charlie took his whole cock in his mouth, sinking down to the very base. Charlie didn't choke, inhaling the man's earthy scent, the very act of sucking the man making his cock drip below him. His lips glided up, excruciatingly slow against the tender skin, and Remus sucked in a breath as he dove down again.

"Amazing …" Remus moaned, his hands diving into Charlie's thick mane of hair. Charlie hummed around him, sucking and blowing and licking, going up and down and in circles around his prick, and Remus was putty as waves upon waves of pleasure ran through his whole body.

When Charlie tasted his balls, got them all wet with his eager tongue, Remus took himself in his hand and stroked, watching in unbridled lust as Charlie ate him. Remus was thoroughly amazed. Charlie was an O in sucking cock, looking absolutely breathtaking with his arse in the air, one hand running up and down Remus' thigh and the other fisting himself. Remus wanted more—he wanted to taste the other man.

Charlie yelped in surprise when he was flipped around, and had to suck in a harsh breath of pleasure as Remus licked the head of his cock, running down its length, salivating on his balls and then gliding over his arsehole.

"Holy fucking—nggh," Charlie said roughly, groaning against Remus' thigh. He took Remus in his mouth again and sucked, and the two of them swam in pleasure, head bobbing to a frantic rhythm as they both pleasured each other. Remus fingers began teasing Charlie's hole—he wanted to fuck the guy so bad, be buried so deep in him that they didn't know where one ended and the other began.

When Charlie resurfaced, he got off Remus and turned, kissing the man. Clothes had been ripped off at some point, and Remus couldn't get enough of Charlie's perfectly toned physique. He was going to fuck the guy, and soon.

There were no words, soon, Charlie was straddling Remus again, both in a frenzied state of arousal, both wanting to rut as fast as possible, and Charlie was barely prepared when Remus rubbed the head of his cock around Charlie's pucker.

"You ready?" Remus huffed. Charlie licked at his mouth again, and they shared another passionate kiss. Charlie nodded, staring into Remus' golden eyes.

They sat completely still for a moment when Charlie sheathed himself, completely entranced with each other, the friction was enormous. Remus fit like a fucking giant's hand in a glove. It was crazy, it was horny, and it was great. Remus pulsated like a madman inside of Charlie, and he feared to move even a centimeter because he might break the man.

In the end, it was Charlie who glided up, sliding his arsehole around and over Remus cock' before slamming back in. His cock was leaking all over Remu's torso and it was killing Remus to see how horny Charlie was. There were no words. They just kissed into the night, eyes closed languidly and tongues fighting, and Remus started to fuck Charlie like there was no tomorrow.

oOo

The heat died down to a dull throb come the following day, and Remus thanked Charlie with a wonderfully prepared breakfast. Charlie quirked his lips at him but accepted the meal.

"You're not going domestic on me now, are you Remus?" Charlie teased. Remus flushed slightly, grinning at the other man.

"I'm merely trying to return the favor, in anyway I can," Remus admitted. Charlie snorted.

"Believe me, Remus, you've already returned it. You can return it again and again that way, if you want," Charlie suggested, biting into his toast and winking. Remus flushed again, his inhibitions flaring, but he had much more control now, and he stamped it down with less effort.

"I'll have you as long as you keep doing _that _with your tongue," Remus retorted with equal cheek, sidling towards Charlie and wrapping a rather possessive arm around his neck. They both shared a good-humored kiss after that, a kiss that might have gone a few seconds longer than intended, with some playful arse-grabbing that scared a house-elf, but they were on good terms, and had plenty of reason to continue on with their new found interest in each other.

After that morning, Remus, with a renewed sense of purpose, returned to the matter at hand. He made his way over to Dumbledore's office, stopping by the door and breathing one quite breath, before knocking twice.

"Come in," called quietly from the other side, and Remus braced himself.

As he expected, Albus looked like shite, for lack of better word. His robes were in disarray and ha had never looked so old. Remus understood to some extent—the responsibilities and burdens piled upon the Hogwarts Headmaster's shoulders like sacks of flour, and no matter how powerful Dumbledore was, he was still a very old man.

"Remus," Albus said with some attempt at color. "You look rather fresh-faced."

Remus tugged at his collar slightly and cringed on the inside. "I've had better days. But it sure is a pleasant time at the Manor, all things considering."

Albus' eyes twinkled, but with a hint of sadness in them. The Dark was still very much cloying outside, after all. Remus didn't care how insensitive he was—the Dark in him had receded, and his wolf had gone dormant for the time being. The anxiety was off of his chest, and he was able to focus better on his affairs.

Remus seated himself upon Albus' insistence. For a moment Remus was reminded again of his school days when the Headmaster would call him into his office for a chat, usually about classes, sometimes about his curse. Albus had always been perpetually old and wise in his eyes, although this time, the image that bore into his mind wasn't in a positive light.

"I actually wanted to inquire about …" he stopped for a moment, thinking about the man. The last time he saw him was months ago, and even then their meetings were scarce—although Remus had agreed to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher last year, he and the man rarely had time for chit-chat." … about Severus, Albus. We haven't heard from him in a while."

Albus looked pensive, transferring his gaze towards the window of his temporary office. As expected, it was darkly overcast, and the air was thick with gloom.

"Had he been there, with Voldemort?" Remus pressed, trying to tilt his head so that he and the headmaster somewhat faced each other. Remus' eyes were drawn to the papers on the desk—plenty of them were short, succinct letters, notes, Remus thought to himself, and the others were more lengthy and detailed. Realization dawned in Remus' eyes when he saw the script. The elegance, the precision …

"He's been writing letters," Remus breathed.

"He has," Albus replied after a while. "His insight has been one of the main reasons why I could identify the curse so quickly—it was ever so helpful, but it comes at a price."

Albus held one of the letters up, showing him the script. Remus' breath caught—he didn't need his werewolf senses to realize that the ink that had been used, the dark, rust-colored ink, was dried blood.

"Is that his—" Remus nearly couldn't stop asking to confirm it, but he clamped his mouth shut. Of course it would be. Remus heard of such spells—messages written in blood to invoke certain kinds of ancient magics. Appropriately called Blood Magic, this branch of magical practice demanded a more contractual relationship with the magic, where the magic granted the needs of the user based on the person's life blood.

"Severus said in one of his letters that it had been necessary. He had been sworn to secrecy as to where he was, and could only share as much information as he could with it. The Blood Magic must have helped him bypass layers upon layers of wards, which leads me to believe that Voldemort is at some place that is heavily guarded—a pureblood manor, like Lady Augusta's, or an institution of some kind," Albus said, though his tone had gone less and less warm, and Remus strained to look for a reason for Albus' coldness. But it dawned on him again, and Remus could see the images running in Albus' head. Severus had always been Dark, and Albus had always been Light. There were no compromises in their magic, and neither swayed to the other's inclinations. Albus, however, had been trying to turn Severus into a Light wizard for years, and to see one of his protégés using magic in such a blatantly Dark manner was making him disappointed.

"Will he be returning anytime soon?" Remus inquired, stepping clear away from the topic of the Dark magic. Remus, being a Dark creature with inherently Light inclinations, had a balanced relationship with the two opposing sides of magic—he could shift into either and cast spells that stem from both, although in terms of allegiance, Remus aligned himself with Albus.

"I think not," Dumbledore said after a pause. "One of his letters indicated one of the Dark Lord's servants having suspicions of him. He would reaffirm his position and work from the shadows, using this—"Dumbledore looked at the papers with clear repulsion"—form of magic to attain his goals of informing for the Light."

"It is a noble but unappreciated duty, the position of a spy," Remus said, partly as tribute to Severus, mostly to assuage Albus.

"It is a duty that calls for Dark traits—manipulation, coercion, malversation. Yet none can do it as well as he, and for the betterment of the Light," Albus Dumbledore relented.

Remus smiled encouragingly. They had not lost Severus in the war, but he would be indisposed. Remus thought about his last Wolfsbane batch running out in two months, how the wards around the pen Augusta had begrudgingly set up for him in some corner of the manor would have to be reinforced, because he wouldn't be lucid during his transformations anymore, should he not get the proper brews.

But there were much more troubling issues, and Remus didn't need to bother Albus with more.

They parted amicably enough, as amicable as one could be given the times, with Albus nodding to him solemnly, if not wearily, and Remus closing the door while stepping backwards, to glance at the headmaster again before leaving.

He wasn't two steps from the door when two men barreled down from the nearby corridor. Remus' senses flared, and he was on instant alert, but when he got to the scene, it was Charlie, all tall and burly, pinning down the scrawny, stooped Mundungus Fletcher.

Remus' eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. He couldn't imagine Charlie Weasley being the type who brawled with some random person without motive. "Charlie! What is the meaning of this?"

Charlie's head snapped towards him, his hair like flame. His grip on Mundungus' shirt tightened as he pushed him against a wall. "Remus. I heard him. He was muttering in one of the rooms. He said he couldn't get into Grimmauld Place because the wards have turned active!"

"I-I said no such—such thing, you, you lying sack of potatoes," Mundungus sniped, halfhearted in his attempt to be indignant. Remus glanced at him in askance, stepping forward.

"You've been stealing again, haven't you? You thieving little vermin," Charlie growled coldly. Remus put a hand on his shoulder, staring at him intently, but his expression was full of revelation.

"Sirius," Remus said hollowly, "he's alive."


	12. Part II: The Boy Lives

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. REVIEW.**

The Boy Lives

Voldemort's chest rose and fall, although he was not breathing. He had given up that part of his humanity long ago, that instinctual need for air, in his bid for immortality—a ritual he barely remembered, one that required the price of blood and the wilting of his lungs. The habit was still ingrained in him, however, as his diaphragm moved in a languid fashion.

He sat in a high throne made of marble, a hulking piece in the center of a grand receiving room. He was in Riddle Manor, preparing for the weeks to come. His Death Eater commanders had been dispatched to do various kinds of bidding, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

On his face was a satisfied, grotesque smirk. He had done it. The land was plagued with creatures of the Dark, the magic had turned sentient and ghosted everywhere, and his ambitions were on the rise with its power. The Runic slab was reduced to powder and spread over the Earth, clogging up the ley lines of natural magic and corrupting them.

He had let everything settle for a bit, let the magical governments and institutions scamper around and clamor for their peace, a peace that would cease to come once the land was truly ravaged. The acromantulas had found their forest dens too chilly to live in, and had moved further towards Muggle habitations, setting up their webs and eating human-sized prey along the way. Several ghouls exposed to the Dark for long periods of time had become fatally violent, tearing through the owners of the attics and basements they used to live in. Banshees had been causing mass panic, sending hundreds into insanity after hearing their wails. Yes, the Wizarding world was unfurling, and only time would tell when it would be to suffice to launch the coordinated attacks necessary to subjugate the countries.

Only, there was a niggling doubt in Voldemort's brain, a certain looming feeling that he couldn't shake off. No, it wouldn't be that ignorant fool Dumbledore—the old wizard was tied down and being pulled in a hundred directions, trying to solve the many tribulations the curse had brought. It had been the perfect solution to stop the Light Lord from doing anything detrimental to his Dark cause, and Voldemort had seen to it that Dumbledore would suffer greatly. It was temporary though, and measures needed to be done to subdue the biggest threat to his rise once and for all.

His gaze flickered to the left, where, from a non-descript hole in the wall came out a slithering thing, a creature that moved almost silently, if it weren't for the sound of its tongue sniffing the air. Nagini, the large green snake, hissed at his master in the old tongue that the both of them knew.

_"Masster, you have been penssive, lately. Hass another one of your servantss failed you?" _the snake hissed, undulating as it peeked up the throne. Voldemort beckoned for the snake with a hand, and the snake complied, slithering towards the chair and climbing up the ornately decorated marble.

_"That iss not the case, Nagini," _the Dark Lord answered, with a certain slick affection. "_The tidess have been too calm. It weariess me. And … there iss a tautness to my magic … it iss very botherssome."_

_"Tautness? Iss it the cold blanket that seepss into the ground? I feel it too, it iss very irritating, Masster," _Nagini complained, coiling around one of Voldemort's arms. The Dark Lord sent a wandless warning charm towards the snake, who relaxed marginally.

"_It is something else … ssomething … ss—" _ and the Dark Lord stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in the air, and his eyes blazing with intense emotion. His magic was coiling violently in his core, sending small explosions of pain in his body. The magic—foreign magic, was filtering through his barriers, an invasive kind of magic that could only be perpetuated by runes. _A glyph, _he thought in panic, someone was using a runic glyph on him, but _who? _And how, when he was at the safety of his castle? He roared, his magic materializing and hacking at the walls, tapestries went down, and torches spilled to the ground, the oils catching fire and making the hall blaze. His magic mixed with the fires, creating a vortex of uncontrolled Dark energy, spitting and flaring and biting at the stone walls until they charred and cracked.

_"Masster! What is it? What is it?" _Nagini, which had tightened around his arm, hissed in alarm.

Voldemort did not respond. He was in another plane, a place where his magic had taken him, and had lifted his pain. Instead, there was light, a small pinhead at the end of a tunnel, where his mind connected to somewhere far-off. Voldemort flew through it, using his magic to propel his projection, and he left his mind altogether, and landed in another, a fresh, uncorrupted mind filled with Light and Dark and magic of unknown potential.

His eyes had become the person's, and he stared at the other form, the other person in the room with him. Voldemort then glanced around him when he didn't recognize her, and saw the runic glyph binding him into place. He roared. His voice carried through, and the other person, a woman who dressed as a mediwitch, jerked to attention, looking disturbed as his harsh, guttural voice came forth. This was madness—how was he being controlled like this? He couldn't control the body to leave the glyph, or just about do anything in it, and he was being attacked, and purged, and burned in a fire that the ancient magic conjured.

He turned around, and he caught a glance of himself in one of the glass windows, and he understood, with deafening clarity.

A teenage boy stared back at him with the Dark Lord's own ferocious red eyes. The messy hair, the scar which was dripping blood.

This was the cause of his unease. The bane of his existence.

The Boy-Who-Lived, the Potter boy who belonged to those thrice-damned Wizarding filth. The one in the prophecy.

_He is alive, and he is purging me from himself._

_I must not let that happen._

Voldemort leaped out of the body, and used all of the magic he brought to conceal himself, and to drain some of the curse out of the boy's scar. He twisted and yanked, soldering off the Darkness that had ingrained into the curse scar, remnants no doubt of the ritual of the Demon's Night curse. When he was finished, only his own taint remained, and he had carefully hidden that under layers upon layers of deception, so that no spell could detect its presence inside the boy's scar. Through this, he would be able to see, to invade the boy's subconscious if needed.

The runic glyph stopped, the glowing symbols halting in their turning and disappearing from the floor, and Voldemort—satisfied that remnants of him still stayed in the boy—leaked out, going back through the tunnel from where he came.

The night was silent for a while, deathly silent, until Voldemort bid the snake to go to the other room.

No Death Eater disturbed him, then, preoccupied he was of quelling his rage by wielding his magic to conjure mannequins and live animals and destroying them as quickly. His anger blazed until the dredges of morning, when two of his four walls had crumbled under immense stress, and every surface was matted with splinters, shards and sickening fluids.


	13. Part II: The Ancient One

**Author's Note: Relish this addition to the plot and review lovelies. Please take note that sometimes I post more than one chapter per upload so pay careful attention.**

The Ancient One

In the thick darkness of night, his keen eyes saw everything. Bodies were strewn along the dark path of the forest, corpses with pieces of their bodies thrown which way and there. He couldn't call them dead, for they were already dead to begin with; Inferi, risen from the graves of a nearby cemetery, wreaking havoc across the countryside, awoken by the dark curse seeping into the ground. He was not fond of confrontation, but he had been swarmed, drawn by the stillness of his flesh, and he ended their damned second lives with a combination of magic and might.

His eyes glowed a cat's eye yellow in the trees. In his mind he could hear one of his kin calling it 'aimless wandering', but he has a hunch, an instinct, that what they were all looking for was in the midst of this country.

He was in the middle of a run, hopping from tree branch to tree branch, when his blood turned cold and his hairs stood on end.

A ripple cascaded through the mountains, realigning the Dark magics floating in the wind. Like a magnet, the thick rivulets of Darkness felt drawn to it, align themselves towards it, and he himself succumbed for a few moments. The rift in the aether, a shockwave of energy, lasted only a few seconds. When it stopped, he leapt onto one of the highest trees he could find. An intuitive scan of the magical signature, and the latent Darkness of the source, struck him as too familiar.

His indignation rose, his ancient magic surging under his pale skin. The energy glowed almost visibly around him, the very nature surrounding him responding violently. Trees bent and stones floated, the leaves swirling around him like razors. Fangs bared, he leaped into the night, towards the mountains, and, as he approached a cliff, he braced himself, collapsed his magic, and transformed.

oOo

Harry woke with less excitement as compared to the previous days, for no one was there to greet him and ask about his health. He sighed as wakefulness dawned, and he looked far-off, towards the end of the long room. He was staring past the window, to the subdued light valiantly trying to illuminate the place.

It was a listless late afternoon. The days were so dark, especially in the inner parts of the castle, Marie had told him, that the professors and caretakers had had to erect torches that emitted bright blue flames and floating crystals of energy around the darker halls. The Dark magic seemed to have been seeping into the castle and causing everyone to be downcast, but in reality the curse and its casualties were taking their toll on the students.

Harry stayed lying there for a while, transfixed with the way the light grew dimmer and dimmer. His hands gripped lightly at the bedsheets, playing with them, rubbing them against his fingers. It was dusk, probably, turning into evening. Harry had slept for more than fourteen hours. He wasn't surprised—Healer Thisbe's runic glyph, a combination of unfamiliar runes that she had referred to as a Purging Glyph, had woke him up from his state of sleep and had caused him incredible amounts of pain, most of it in his mental facilities. He had been flooded by images of blood and death, of snakes and green light and red eyes. It had been madness. Harry had collapsed when the purging was over, and had long since been asleep.

He was starving, his stomach feeling incredibly hollow and tight. He guessed that he hasn't eaten for almost a day. He put his hand under his shirt and rubbed the flat expanse of his torso, wondering if he would be able to grab a bite somewhere down in the kitchens. He was well enough—his body wasn't too sore, and he thought he might be able to walk.

Harry decided that it was worth a shot. He threw the covers off of him and gently pushed himself to a sitting position, turning so that his legs fell off the edge of the bed. He was almost unsure if his legs could support him, but when he finally slid off the bed, he was standing, and not at all wobbling in the knees. His lips turned into a small, sad smile. His magic had gotten so used to gearing itself towards recovery that he seemed to be getting better and better at recuperating.

He started walking, taking it one step at a time and testing his stability. He could manage a few strides without feeling physical stress and had already left the confines of the movable screens blocking the other beds, when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Harry tensed, freezing on the spot. He could feel the magic coming off of the person in waves, touching him and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand. The dark shadows seemed to wrap around him like winter furs. He hadn't thought of bringing his wand, which he left next to the nightstand, because he figured he would be relatively safe in the halls, and wouldn't be able to properly wield the wand anyway. He cursed himself for that.

But the person was already upon him, and all he could do was, in his alarm, call forth a burst of magic from his hands as the assailant drew close. To his surprise, his hands fired off an invisible aura of magic, and it almost seemed to work, except that the assailant was _fast _and had thrown his body across the floor to his right, rolled, and regained his footing. His position threw him into the light of a nearby oil lamp, and Harry got to see parts of the dark stranger. Harry saw in his face a picture of surprise mixed with dawning contempt.

Harry didn't have time to react, as he was slammed onto a wall, a silver dirk's blade being pressed to his neck. He cringed as pain lanced through his body, the little mounds of pain now escalating into insistent throbs and making him dizzy.

"What. Is. The meaning of this?" his assailant drew out in a low, angry voice, shoving Harry back against the wall with a jolt. Harry cried out, reaching forward and trying to grasp at any part of the stranger's.

"Who—who are you?" Harry grit out, matching fury for fury. He glared at his assailant with defiance, his hands fumbling around the arm that has got him pinned and gripping. He couldn't very well wrench it off, however, because of the dirk to his neck. Harry saw under the dim light of the dusk long, silver hair, pale skin, and strange, dark robes. And eyes—eyes that were purple, glaring down at him with such intensity, burning with rage. But Harry didn't falter, staring back with equal vehemence.

"Why do you reek of him? Why are you emitting traces of his Darkness?" the man hissed, his breath hitting Harry's face. Harry saw them, a glint captured of the little rays left of the sun. Fangs. Realization struck him with such blaring intensity.

"You're—you're a—"Harry stumbled over his words. He stared at the assailant's face, the ageless contours, the porcelain beauty—it was no doubt, the man was a vampire, in the flesh.

"Answer me!" the man shouted threateningly, and Harry's back met the wall in another crash. He flinched, his vision swaying. Harry watched the room spin, trying to focus on the dark creature currently subduing him.

"I—I don't know what you're saying I—who's _he_? Who do I _reek_ of?" Harry asked in desperation. His magic was welling up, gathering in his core and tightening, and his heavy breathing was in stark contrast to the vampire's unmoving chest.

"Him. You-Know-Who. The Dark Lord Voldemort! How are you connected to him? Are you his servant?" the man questioned, his eyes aglow with fire. His grip tightened against Harry's shirt, and the dirk pressed further onto his neck, drawing blood. Harry shut his eyes.

"No!" Harry cried, and the vampire lunged, throwing the dirk towards the floor and sinking his fangs onto Harry's neck, near the wound the blade had created.

The blood rushed out almost immediately, inhumanly, like liquid being drawn through a straw. Harry felt woozy in an instant—it was magic, some form of magic pulling out all his blood, and he had almost lost grip of consciousness when his magic whiplashed.

With a yelp, the vampire was thrown across the room by the force of Harry's magic, and Harry sank to his knees, panting, and feeling very lightheaded.

The vampire stared at Harry in awe, before noticing the faint glint on the boy's neck. His fangs, one of his fangs had snapped, staying lodged deep in Harry's carotid, and from the wound, blood was slowly gushing out, covering Harry's shirt and chest.

Harry later collapsed on his own pool of blood.


	14. Part II: Resolve

**Author's Note: The last of part II. I actually had this written weeks ago. I was just going through it to see if I didn't like anything. Anyway, please take note that sometimes I post more than one chapter per upload so pay careful attention. And yeah, reviews make my writing more meaningful. So please tell me your thoughts.**

**Resolve**

When Harry came to consciousness, the first two things that he realized right off was that first, he was chilly, and second, his magic—it was _alive, _coursing through him, running through his body like a watery ghost. If Harry squinted, he could see it, a faint trace of aura surrounding his arms and legs and the rest of him, coiling around listlessly. It seemed to have done the deed again, like it always did. He was no longer feeling the headache from before, and he could just tell that he had enough blood running in his veins again. But the thought immediately brought him back to what happened, and he almost jerked up from his lying position, when hands came around him and pulled him back.

Naturally, he panicked.

"Wh-what's going on?" he cried, craning his head back in alarm and flailing his arms. He had been resting in the arms of the vampire from before, and from the way the creature was staring at him curiously, he had been doing so for a while now.

"I am cradling you in my arms, young one," the vampire only said, quirking an eyebrow.

"You bit me!" Harry exclaimed before he could stop himself, trying to push away from the vampire's clutches. But Harry felt the taut muscles in the creature's arms circle around him more firmly, and he was effectively trapped behind them.

"I did. And I am heartily sorry for that, no pun intended. I could have killed you," the vampire admitted. "But I had to. I can tell from a human's blood if he is lying, and your blood did not betray you."

Harry stared at the vampire's statue-like face for a second, transfixed, before shaking his head and glaring.

"Why did you attack me?" Harry demanded, still struggling feebly in the vampire's arms.

The vampire's eyes hardened, fixing him with a look. "I felt you from miles away. A pulse of Dark magic, realigning all the latent Dark magic in the air towards the direction of this castle. Your magic has traces of him. The Dark Lord. I had hoped you would explain to me why that was."

Harry's eyes widened. Dark magic? Harry was confused. He couldn't have emitted that Dark magic, because he had been in the Nurse's Office the whole time, recovering from the incredible pain brought about by the cursed ritual.

When his mind caught up, things started making sense, and he paused in his thoughts to gather new ones. The cursed ritual was invoked by Voldemort, and remnants of it had stayed in his scar, causing him suffering. And the night before, healer Thisbe had used a Purging Glyph on him, to try and clean him of the corrupting magic.

"When … when did you feel it exactly?" Harry asked, his eyes darting towards the man—vampire, he tried to remind himself—who was busying himself by playing with Harry's cold hands.

"The night before, at around two after midnight," the vampire answered distractedly. "It was indeed his magical signature, and I felt it here … and …" he sniffed, burying his nose in Harry's neck and making him flush involuntarily. "Yes … there're still traces of it on you."

Harry's skin crawled. He had never been used to such intimate gestures, and their positions at that moment—with the vampire leaning back against the headrest, and Harry in between his legs, lying half-on top of him and pinned by his arms—occurred to him with such startling reality, that he almost jumped five feet towards the next bed. He tensed, and with the stiffening of his shoulders and the tightening of his muscles, the vampire narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Harry cast his eyes down on the bedsheets, trying to deflect whatever it was that flitted across the vampire's mind by explaining. "I don't know if this'll make sense … I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. Which means that … that I'm probably connected to him and, well … last night, the mediwitch of this school performed some form of cursebreaking on me, to stop the aftereffects of the Dark curse on Europe that settled on me."

The vampire was silent, and Harry had to peek behind him after a few moments to see his reaction. He found the golden eyes of the vampire staring at him, and Harry swallowed.

"You're … the Boy-Who-Lived," the vampire repeated. "You—the boy, the one who vanquished him as a baby … you actually exist?" The vampire said, and then laughed, really laughed, and against him Harry felt the rumbling of the vampire's chest against his back. Harry didn't think there was anything amusing with the information—to him, his title brought nothing but trouble, and a grim destiny.

The vampire slowly ended his tirade, chuckling low and then quirking his lips at him. "I have found you, then. The coven has long since thought that you had been lost in the Muggle world, growing up in some suburb and studying the laws of nature like a regular human. But here you are! In a magical school. And we haven't found you until now," he said, a hint of amusement still in his voice. "Oh, how you have eluded us, young one. Tell me, how did you make that possible?"

Harry squared his shoulders and turned away from him. The vampire's smile dropped when he felt the instinct with which Harry wanted to pull away.

Harry for his part didn't want to tell a stranger of his life. For eleven years he hadn't known magic even existed, let alone that he was a wizard. All his life he had been treated as something generally less than every other living thing, and Harry had finally gotten away from that life and started anew. He wasn't about to tell the vampire how he didn't mean for it to happen that way, that he didn't mean to be stuck with Muggle relatives who hated him, hated him so much that they had hurt him, and the headmaster of the school needed to steal him away before any more damage could be done.

"Young one …" the vampire muttered. "I have offended you, haven't I?" The arms around him tightened, and Harry grew tauter in his arms, but didn't say a word.

The vampire licked at the place where there was dull pain—the place, Harry surmised, where he was probably bitten. He shivered, and felt the vampire draw closer to him. "Your mind and soul, they are in dissonant harmony … they speak of terrible things, things that you don't speak of to others. You are a broken boy, but such a beautiful boy at that … so much teeming inside of you, so much potential …"

"Stop it," Harry said with a strained voice. "I don't need to hear any of it. I'm fine. I'm past that."

The vampire shook his head against Harry's, and buried his nose in the crook of Harry's shoulder again. Harry was conflicted between fighting harder and pulling away, and relaxing into the stranger's arms.

"You need so much healing. Yes, I see it now, the scars. Some of them are physical, but most are in another plane, a deeper, more significant part of you," the vampire sighed. "You are terrifyingly strong, to have that much fortitude. It's … it's inspiring, and saddening."

Harry said nothing to that, trying to be still as possible so that his body wouldn't betray any more of his secrets. Instead, he focused on the vampire instead—his presence, his words, his motives, and _not_ his empathy.

"Who are you? Why have you come to find You-Know-Who?" Harry sidestepped, turning towards the vampire and fixing him a curious gaze. The vampire locked gazes with him, searching the boy's emerald eyes for those strands of pain and suffering, but seeing nothing but conviction and stone-cold determination in those eyes. It was frightening—he was going to have to look into this boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, in the near future.

But his introduction had been long overdue, and it was rude to have let it go on so long without the boy knowing who he was.

The vampire turned Harry around and pushed his hair back, still unable to fathom the depths of the boy's hurts. "My name is Stanislaus. I am a vampire of the Vassilisan Coven. We have lived for many decades in isolation, but the Dark Lord Voldemort rooted us out, and took one of my brothers, Viklos. He …" Stanislaus stopped, his eyebrows furrowing together and his jaw setting. "He immolated my beloved brother, and used his body to power the dark curse."

Stanislaus surprise was evident when Harry's magic flared, and he almost wanted to flinch away, but he realized that the magic was meant as a protective reaction, showing its negative affinity to the Dark Lord. His interest grew more with each moment, eyes transfixed with the boy who looked much older than his age.

"That … that bastard," Harry said with cold fury, his magic gathering around him like a viper waiting to trike. How much power has he got? And how has he managed to go under the radar for so long?

"Your indignation is moving, young one," Stanislaus said quietly. "I have known for a fact that wizards such as yourself have no love for Dark creatures, be they Light practitioners or Dark. You are certainly different."

Harry shifted against him. "I've never … I didn't know how much of a monster he is. It's never sunk in, I was—I was so detached from everything, because everything was so _far_ and out there and unfamiliar and—and now—you … your brother …"

Stanislaus' chest tightened. It has been decades since any emotion or affection stirred up in his soul. "It's in the past, young one. I have done my grieving."

"I'm going to stop him," Harry muttered, and then breathed deeply, his hands tightening into fists around the sheets. "I'm going to stop him."

**End of Part II**


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